


Kindred

by Guanin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aromantic Sherlock Holmes, Arospec Mycroft Holmes, Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Bisexual John Watson, Cuddling & Snuggling, Found Family, Gen, M/M, Mention of Homophobic Parents, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Past Drug Use, Selkies, Werewolves, overdose mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-03-14 14:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 130,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18950017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: Sherlock's trip to Dover was supposed to be simple. Catch a burglar, work on his composition, and go home. But when a seal turned man saves your life, how is anything supposed to be the same again?





	1. Chapter 1

The bow tilted gracefully in his hand as he stroked it along his violin strings, tender and quick at the required intervals, beguiling solemn music from its depths. The landscape had put him in a melancholy mood, the cold wind cutting past his coat down his collar, icing his neck and hands, but he paid it little heed as he played on. The cliffs of Dover plummeted at his feet, inches from his toes, blinding white in the gloom of a sky as bright as slate, clouds dimming the sun’s rays to a murky hue. Grass slapped his ankles, shivering in the breeze, a counterpoint to Sherlock’s languid tune. 

He should pause and take down a notation as the composition sprung to his mind, but he would lose the moment, and he wasn’t too keen on preserving this one yet. It was still too rushed, too malformed. It had been clattering against the walls of his skull for days now, a sudden spring of inspiration here and there, but refusing to coalesce into a coherent whole. 

He lowered his bow with a frustrated huff, narrowing his eyes at the cerulean surf beating against the beach below. A movement at the periphery of his vision caught his attention. Several meters away, a figure walked away from the cliff. Male. 1.7 meters in height, maybe. Blonde hair, possibly shot with some grey. Impossible to be certain at this distance. He wore an off-white jumper and jeans, light clothing for this weather. His hunched shoulders and lowered head indicated the wish to not be noticed, which was confirmed by his quickening steps and startled face when he looked over his shoulder and noticed Sherlock’s gaze. He had been listening to Sherlock play and was embarrassed to be caught at it. No matter. If Sherlock minded being overheard, he wouldn’t be out here. Even if he was playing a lackluster piece that wouldn’t obey all his exhortations to function properly. 

No less frustrating than the case that had brought him here. Gregson, a colleague of Lestrade’s in the local force, had asked him to put in a good word with Sherlock after being stumped on a robbery for over a week. Having no other cases to entertain him at the time, Sherlock took the chance to get out of the city for a bit and seek inspiration among the majestic cliffs, but such was proving peskily elusive for both the case and his composition. He was beginning to fear that this one might join the ranks of his unsolved cases. That did happen on occasion, no less irritating than the last. But he wasn’t giving up yet. There were still a couple of avenues of inquiry that he could explore. 

````````````````

Sherlock’s calves burned, feet stumbling on the pebbly beach as he gave chase, the burglar mere paces in front of him. Sherlock’s hunch had proved accurate, after all. He’d discovered the man in an abandoned shed by the coastline, his secret stash, and the thief had run off. There was no time to call in the police. Sherlock had rushed after him down the beachfront, his longer legs slowly catching up. Just a bit further and he could grab him. Just a little more.

The man turned around, brandishing a knife to Sherlock’s torso. Sherlock jerked to the side at the last minute, wincing at a pinprick of pain on his ribs. The knife barely glanced off his coat. He grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting the knife away from him, digging his nails between his tendons, forcing him to drop it. The man kicked him, hard, on the shin. Holding fast to his wrist, Sherlock swung with his right fist, smacking him on the nose. The man went down, but not before grabbing Sherlock’s shoulder and dragging him down with him. Pain flared in Sherlock’s right ankle, twisting as it caught in the rocks. He tried to keep his grasp on the burglar, but he saw the man’s left arm rise too late. 

Dizziness shot through him. He gasped, blinking, the world swimming. Something hard had hit his temple. Something even harsher was digging in his stomach now, a knee, pressing him down. The man’s blurry silhouette hovered above him, the knife blade flashing down. 

A huge, brown blur pushed the man away, its heavy weight landing on Sherlock’s legs before shoving off. 

What the hell? Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows, trying to see, but he fell down again on his side, bile rising in his throat. Was that a seal? Yes, it had to be a seal. The man was thrashing, yelling, under the grip of a large seal. He tried to stab it, but the seal pushed his arm down with a fierce flipper and gnashed its teeth into his throat. An ominous silence fell as his flesh tore open, blood gurgling onto the pebbles, his hand scrambling helplessly at the ground, knife slipping from numb fingers. Sherlock lunged for it, but the seal tossed it away with a strong sweep of its tail. Sherlock scrambled back, gritting his teeth at the vicious pounding in his head, crying out as his injured ankle crumpled in pain. He had to stand up. A murderous seal was closing in on him. He had to move. 

Then the impossible happened. The seal morphed, skin wrinkling and expanding, falling to the side as it exposed a man underneath. 

No. That wasn’t possible. Sherlock had clearly seen wrong. The man had come from somewhere else. But where? Had he been here all along? But what happened to the seal? Nothing remained of it but a crumpled mess of skin on the rocks, like it had been violently eviscerated and deboned in the blink of an eye. Impossible. The man crawled toward the water, splashing it on his face, then turned around, standing up to approach Sherlock. 

Why did he look familiar? And why was he naked? What had just happened? Sherlock was hallucinating. He had to be. Seals didn’t just turn into men. That didn’t happen outside of silly fairy tales. 

“It’s okay,” the man said in a soft, reassuring voice. “I’m a doctor. My name is John. What’s yours?”

Sherlock grabbed a rock, prepared to use it if he needed to. The thief lied on the ground, still dead, still bleeding. A seal had killed him, yet now this man was here. Sherlock had missed something. Obviously. Was the blood part of the hallucination? Was the man? Was he even here at all, or was he a figment of Sherlock’s imagination? Why would a naked doctor crawl out from under a sealskin on the beach to tend to Sherlock?

“Can you understand me?” the man asked. 

He was crouching down beside Sherlock now. Sherlock flinched, hyperaware of the helpless position he was in. He was sitting on the ground, injured leg stretched before him, bracing himself on his hands, grasping only a small stone as a weapon as an unknown nudist who might not even be real spoke to him. 

“Are you actually here or am I just imagining you?”

 _Brilliant question, Sherlock. Truly impressive._

He yelled at his inner mocker to shut up.

The man smiled. His whole body was drenched, hair sticking to his forehead, as if he’d just crawled out of the water like the seal had. 

No! They were not the same being. Selkies weren’t real. They weren’t.

“I’m here,” the man said. John. He’d said his name was John. Selkies weren’t named John. “You’re injured. Can I please take a look at the cut on your forehead? You’re bleeding.”

Was he? Sherlock touched his face, wincing as he poked the wound. Huh. Yes, that was certainly blood. Of course it was. That bastard had hit him on the head. The one lying dead over there. He really was dead, wasn’t he? The attack had happened. Something had pushed him off Sherlock and killed him. Sherlock grabbed the John’s left arm. It was solid, skin cool and wet from the water, but with the warmth of tangible life. Sherlock could see, hear, feel, and smell him, a specific scent of sweat that wasn’t coming from Sherlock. Should he lick him to confirm that he could taste him, too? No, that might be too much. The man seemed real enough, and would protest the intrusion.

“I’m real,” John said. Still gentle and reassuring. What did Sherlock look like that this man was peering at him like Sherlock might bolt away screaming at any moment? “Can I take a look? I won’t hurt you. I’m a doctor.”

“So you said. Where did you come from? What is that?”

Sherlock pointed at the dark pile that had been a seal a moment ago. John’s brows rose, scrunching in a frown of surprise and indecision.

“That is a seal skin,” he said with a terse note of finality, meeting Sherlock’s gaze head on. “It’s mine. But that’s not important right now. Your wound is. Are you dizzy? Any blurred vision?”

“A bit. But it’s clearing. What do you mean it’s yours?”

“Wound first, please. How much does it hurt?”

“My head’s pounding. I twisted my ankle. It feels like a sprain, not a break. It hurts on my torso, but I don’t think…”

Sherlock pulled at his clothes, yanking back the layers to expose a crimson spot soaking his shirt. It wasn’t too large, certainly not lethal, and it only stung, not wracked him in agony.

“May I?” John asked even as he started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. 

The cut was barely above a centimeter long and it was shallow, nothing to worry about. Unlike that seal skin. What kind of doctor went about clad only in a seal skin? But the seal had been real. Sherlock had been momentarily crushed under the weight of it, had felt the sleekness of its muscles, had heard it growl. And that gash tearing the thief’s throat apart. No human teeth had done that. 

“It’s superficial,” John said, a note of relief in his voice. “You’ll be fine. Let me take a look at your ankle.”

John scooched back and grabbed Sherlock’s leg by the shin, gently placing it in his lap. It ached at the motion, but not as much as when John removed his shoe and sock. Sherlock bit down on a wince. It was certainly a sprain. His entire foot was swelling up, his ankle blooming red. 

“It is a sprain,” John said after examining it. “Still, you should go to hospital to get an X-ray.”

“I’m not going to hospital for a sprain. I’ll be fine.”

“You should get it fully checked out, just in case.”

“Do you think it’s anything more serious?”

“No, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure—”

“What about my head? Can you treat that yourself?”

“Well, yes, but I strongly recommend—”

“No hospital. I can deal with it myself. Just get me back to my hotel.”

“Alright.” John’s voce rose sharply, exasperated by Sherlock’s recalcitrance, like everyone always was. “I can’t force you to go to hospital. I can treat you at my house. It’s closer than the surgery. But you can’t walk that distance, so you’ll have to wait here while I go and fetch my car. Are you okay to do that?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. 

“You’re not going to call an ambulance , are you?”

John rolled his eyes.

“No. I’m just getting my car.” He frowned over his shoulder. “Although, we should call the police about him.”

Yes, the dead man bleeding on the sand certainly needed to be cleared away. 

“Why was he attacking you, anyway?” John asked. 

“I’m a detective. I was trying to apprehend him for burglary”

“You’re police?”

“No. I’m a consulting detective working with the police. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock. I’m John Watson. Are you going to tell them what happened?” John asked.

Why was he casting his gaze down nervously like that? He wasn’t the seal. Of course he wasn’t the seal. He couldn’t possibly be the seal. 

“A seal killed him and disappeared, leaving me alone for some reason. He clearly was killed by a seal, or at least an animal of the right size given the tooth marks on his throat, so that part of my hallucination is correct, if not what followed after.”

“Hallucination?” John frowned at him in startled confusion. “You think you were hallucinating?”

“Of course I was. I saw the seal turn into you, which is preposterous. No, you must be a nude bather who happened to be nearby. Although I can’t figure out why my mind melded the two events. Or why I’m still seeing the sealskin there.” 

Sherlock frowned at the skin, lying just two meters away, still solid and clear, no faded figment of his imagination. Why was it still there? How could it be real?

“I told you the skin is mine,” John said.

He placed Sherlock’s foot back on the ground and went to recover the skin, wrapping it around his waist to cover his nudity. Right, so the skin was real enough. Either that, or both it and John were illusions. 

“I still don’t understand why you were swimming with an animal skin,” Sherlock said.

Irritation flashed in John’s face.

“I wasn’t wearing it like a garment. I was…” He stopped himself, pressing his lips tightly together, looking uncertain as to whether he should continue speaking. “You weren’t hallucinating, alright?”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Of course I was. You’re not a selkie. They don’t exist.”

John’s expression hardened, his jaw clenching, annoyance flaring into anger. Interesting. Did the man truly believe himself to be a selkie, or did he have something to gain by fooling Sherlock so? For a second, it looked like John might yell at him, but he deflated with a weary sigh and shook his head at himself.

“Never mind,” he said, defeat in his voice. “I’ll be right back.”

He hurried off down the beach. Sherlock followed him with his gaze until he was out of sight, then turned to the corpse, crawling towards it. The proof of the animal attack was even more conclusive up close. Sherlock couldn’t see evidence of the animal’s return to the sea, but it was difficult to determine its movements at all on the pebbled ground. The entire thing was decidedly suspicious. A seal arriving precisely when the thief had been about to plunge a knife into Sherlock, killing his attacker, then disappearing, replaced by this mysterious doctor. A most unlikely sequence of events, yet he was certainly not about to explain it away by succumbing to the man’s idiotic insistence that he was a selkie as if Sherlock were some fool. 

He pulled his mobile out of his coat pocket, but didn’t call Gregson yet. If they arrived before John returned, they would try to take him away to their own medical care and his contact with John would be curtailed. He needed to stay with John and unravel this ridiculous mystery. 

Before long, the sound of a car reached his ears. A blue-grey sedan, four years old, came from the north, parking as close as its driver dared without risking getting stuck on the pebbles. John emerged, dressed in a jumper and jeans. Sherlock’s eyes widened. That’s where he had seen him. The man who had heard him playing the violin. That had been John. 

“That’s the closest I can get the car,” John said when he reached Sherlock. “I can carry you, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d rather lean on you and walk myself.”

“Don’t you dare walk on that foot. I’m fine carrying you.”

John crouched down beside him, reaching under Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock shrank back, balking at the indignity of being carried like a helpless damsel.

“I can hop on my good foot.”

“It will be easier if I carry you. Now come on.”

“I don’t see why we can’t just do it the way I want. It wouldn’t be difficult.”

“More difficult than carrying you. There’s no one around. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, bristling at the accusation. John rolled his eyes.

“Are you always this stubborn?” he asked, exasperated.

“Yes. Now.” Sherlock placed his right hand on John’s shoulder. “If you’ll just help me upright, I—”

Before Sherlock could put any weight on his left foot, John scooped him up and pushed himself to his feet. Sherlock yelped, instinctively grabbing at his shoulders. 

“See?” John said, walking to the car. “Not so hard, now is it?”

Sherlock resented the triumphant smile in his tone most heartedly. 

“Did you call the police?” John continued before Sherlock could give him a piece of his mind.

“Not yet. I’ll call from the car. Which I could have hopped to perfectly fine.”

“Dragging this on for far longer than necessary, apart from causing yourself unnecessary stress.” He stopped by the open backseat door. “See how fast we got here without your dramatic posturing?”

There was nothing bloody dramatic about it, but Sherlock let the matter go as John deposited him on the seat. It had sped up things considerably, not that he would be admitting that out loud. He scooched back on the seat so he could stretch out his legs and keep his injured ankle elevated. Once he was settled, John fetched Sherlock’s discarded shoe and sock and got into the driver’s seat and turned on the car. As he drove off, Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Gregson, informing him about what had become of his thief. He left out the part where he had hallucinated John emerging from a seal. He hardly needed to become a laughing stock simply because his jarred brain had decided to malfunction for a moment. Gregson wanted to know John’s address straightaway to look for him, but Sherlock held off on giving it to him, shushing John when he supplied it after Sherlock told Gregson that he didn’t know it. Gregson’s interference could wait until after Sherlock had gotten a chance to learn more about John. 

It took only a couple of minutes to arrive at John’s residence, a wooden house near the beach. It had probably once belonged to a fisherman, bearing the hallmarks of humble beginnings, although it had been fixed up in recent years. No other houses were close by, meaning that John wished to avoid having neighbors prying into his business. He would have a far easier commute if he lived in town, but a more public existence. The proximity to the ocean was also significant. He enjoyed bathing in the frigid water, even in winter, and there were no nude beaches around for him to indulge himself. Still, there was no need for such an isolated existence simply for that reason. 

Sherlock didn’t waste his breath protesting as John carried him into the house and placed him on a tan colored sofa. The interior of the house had been fixed up more than the outside, but was still far from modern. The furniture was a mix of new and old pieces, which didn’t match very well, but it was all clean and organized. A medium-sized flat screen stood against the wall in full view of the sofa, along with a bluray player, both relatively new. Yet against the opposite wall stood a tape deck and a record player. So he liked the older technology, as well. His tape and record collection was stored in the middle shelves of a large bookcase, which was otherwise filled with books, also a mix of old and new. As Sherlock examined his surroundings, John fetched his first aid kit and a glass of water from the kitchen.

“Are you allergic to any medication?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. John handed him two tablets along with the water.

“Take these. They’re for the pain.”

Sherlock swallowed it all eagerly, only now realizing how immensely dry his mouth was, or how much his ankle was throbbing. John took the empty glass from him and placed it on a side table. 

“Let’s examine that cut,” John said, sitting on a chair beside Sherlock. 

Sherlock sat quietly as John cleaned and bandaged his head, studying his face and movements. Quick, efficient, very much a doctor. He looked to be in his forties. Frown and laugh lines wrinkled his face in equal measure, yet Sherlock got the impression that he smiled less than frowned. His eyes were a deep, sky blue, thoughtful and careful as he ensured that Sherlock’s cuts were well-tended before shifting his attention to Sherlock’s very swollen ankle. 

“Why do you want me to think you’re a selkie?” Sherlock asked as John checked his ankle again. 

John’s hands jerked to a stop, lips tightening, before resuming his examination.

“I didn’t say I wanted that,” he said, tone measured, evasive, unsure what he even wished to reveal. 

“You insisted that I wasn’t hallucinating.”

John sucked in a low breath, hands still on Sherlock’s foot before grabbing a rolled up bandage from his kit. He had yet to look Sherlock in the eye. 

“You weren’t.”

“You can’t be a selkie. They don’t exist.”

A harsh, weary sigh carrying years of frustration burst out of John as he finally turned to Sherlock, piercing him with sharp eyes.

“Of course not,” he said, wrapping the bandage around Sherlock’s foot and ankle. “It’s ridiculous. There’s no such thing as selkies. It’s 2019. You should know better.”

His voice brimmed with bitter sarcasm, like not believing in selkies was the truly preposterous thing. 

“The very notion of a mythological creature being real defies all laws of logic and reason. It isn’t scientifically possible for selkies to exist.”

“And your science has deciphered every mystery in the universe, has it?”

John’s dismissive tone irked Sherlock.

“Of course not, but between believing in eldritch creatures or that I suffered a hallucination due to my head injury, only one of those is actually credible.”

“So you think you were hallucinating? Possible, but completely incorrect in this case. Your head injury isn’t even severe enough to make that the likely case.”

“You’re a man. A perfectly ordinary, human man. Not a selkie or a merman or anything so ludicrous.”

“I’m certainly not a merman,” John said as if Sherlock had just insulted him.

Sherlock snorted at the ridiculousness of this whole argument. 

“Oh, so those are real too, are they?”

“Of course they are.”

“Nonsense. There’s nothing magical about you. Even if I were willing to entertain such a laughable notion, you don’t even look right.”

John’s eyes narrowed in offense.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Aren’t selkies supposed to be arrestingly beautiful or some such? I might be thinking of mermaids. I’ve deleted so much of this drivel.”

“Are you calling me ugly?”

“No, you’re not ugly. You’re actually handsome in a puppy dog sort of way, but you’re not an ethereal beauty. You’re pleasing to look at, but I’m not driven to sink to one knee and declare my undying love for you.”

John’s defensiveness retreated for a moment in favor of a bemused smile.

“Hm. I’m not sure about the puppy dog bit, but I feel like I should be flattered. That is, if you weren’t calling me a liar.” John affixed the bandage with medical tape. “By the way, insulting the person who saved your life and is treating your wounds is a bit rude.”

“I am grateful for the medical attention, but I wish you’d tell me the truth instead of insisting that my hallucination was real.”

“It was not a hallucination.”

John’s voice rose sharply as his patience neared its breaking point. Why was it so important for him to uphold this fantasy?

“Of course it was.”

If John’s glare were made of steel, Sherlock would be bleeding to death on the sofa right now. 

“Are you trying to get me to put my skin back on? Is that what you want?”

“Try it. We both know if won’t magically turn you into a seal.”

“For fuck’s sake.” The man sank back, frustration oozing from every pore. “You are absolutely impossible. Why can’t you just trust the evidence of your own eyes?”

“Our senses lie to us all the time. Mine were compromised, hence the hallucination. It’s the only possible explanation.”

“No, it isn’t. It may be the only possible one according to what you believe to be true, but you don’t know everything. Is your head still muddled now?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, assessing himself. 

“It hurts and I’m tired, but I believe that I’m thinking clearly.”

“Do you think it likely that you’ll start hallucinating any moment now?”

“Not likely, no.”

“Fine.”

The man stood and yanked off his clothes. Sherlock jerked back, wincing a he jarred his ankle. John’s eyes still sparkling with annoyance, he grabbed the skin from a desk at the other side of the room. He was actually going to put the skin on? What would that prove? Sherlock could hardly hallucinate on command. John draped the skin over his head, wrapping himself tight.

Sherlock shrank back, gasping, heart hammering in his throat. The skin was rippling, grafting onto John’s body, his limbs shrinking and transforming into flippers and a tail, a seal head appearing where the human one had just been. A seal slid onto the floor. John was gone, a seal in his place. A seal that looked identical to the one that had saved Sherlock’s life. A seal that was peering at Sherlock as if daring him to deny the truth now. 

Oh God. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. It had to be a trick. It had to! But there was no way for the man to have vanished only to be replaced by a seal. No way to make such a sudden switch. The seal wiggled toward him. Sherlock yelled, scrambling off the sofa to get away, but his injured ankle seized and he crashed to the floor, crying out. The seal was on him in a flash, grasping him with a strong flipper. Four senses were engaged now, all telling him that a heavy, sleek, smelly seal was on him, a seal that was grunting at him with smug satisfaction, if that was even possible for a seal to do. It was real. No hallucination. This seal was one hundred percent real. 

“It can’t be,” Sherlock moaned, pushing at the flipper, but it wouldn’t budge. “It can’t be.”

The seal let him go. Sherlock shrank back, crawling across the floor, wide eyes on the seal, which was rippling again, its skin peeling away just like it had on the beach to reveal a human form once more. No trick. It was no trick. Not even Houdini could have pulled this one off. But how? How?!

“How did you…” Sherlock stammered, pointing between John and the empty skin lying in a pile beside him. “I don’t understand. This can’t be possible.”

“It can,” John said gently. “It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe. I just wanted you to stop saying I wasn’t real. Let’s get you back on the sofa.”

John reached for him. Sherlock shrank back, crawling away, terror freezing every muscle in his body. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” John said, worry in his eyes. 

Worried for Sherlock? Worried that he might tell the world the truth? No one would believe him. He wouldn’t believe himself. But it was true. It was all true. God, how could this possibly be true? 

Sherlock lunged for the skin. John tried to intercept him, but Sherlock already had his hands on it, on the smooth, blubbery truth of it. It felt, looked, and smelled exactly like it should. There was no mistaking this for some fabrication. An old scar, three tooth marks, marred a piece of it. An identical scar pockmarked John’s right shoulder. Sherlock reached for him, touching the scars, testing his warm, breathing skin. Two warm skins. Two skins belonging to the same person. The same creature. 

“Sherlock,” John said softly as he extracted the skin from his grasp. Was his name even really John? Why would a selkie have an English name? “You’re okay. Look at me.”

His tone was gentle and soothing, as if Sherlock were a frightened animal who needed calming down. 

“It’s okay. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

“How can there be nothing to be scared of when every biological principle I know is a lie? How can I trust my own knowledge anymore? Are merpeople also real? Fairies? Goblins? Ghosts? Am I just living in a world of magic and superstition?”

“Goblins aren’t real, as far as I know.”

“But everything else is?” Sherlock’s voice rose to a screech. “Oh, that’s brilliant. Fucking brilliant.” 

“Sherlock, please let me help you to the sofa. You’re hurt.”

“Why are you helping me? Why did you save me? Is it to gain control over me? Am I beholden to you because of it through some magical bond?”

Sherlock peered at the skin. Didn’t humans who possessed a selkie skin have mastery over them? John pulled the skin behind him, guessing Sherlock’s thought. 

“You can’t control me with my skin,” he said in a stern warning. “If you took it, you would regret it, so don’t even consider it. And no, you don’t owe me a life debt or anything like that. I saved you because I wanted to, that’s all.”

“Why? Why would you want to? Do you usually go around saving random humans? And why do have a human house? Do you spend half of your life in the sea and half on land? Is John your real name? Why would a sea creature have a human name?”

Questions erupted to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind, bottlenecking and spilling out in rapid bursts, unable to modulate his thought process into a coherent stream. John, the selkie, the impossible creature that should not exist, looked at him with pity and guilt in his eyes, all too human, everything about him so perfectly human that Sherlock barely bit down on a scream of despair before it filled the room. 

“John is my name,” John spoke slowly, gratingly so, as if Sherlock were a small child who barely understood English and needed to be spoken down to. “Watson is not. I chose it to live in the human world. I don’t spend much time among my kind anymore, but I do return to the sea often. No, I don’t make a habit of saving random humans. I recognized you. I saw you playing the violin a couple of days ago.”

“I know. I recognized you, too. So you were so enraptured by my playing that you felt compelled to save me? The piece wasn’t even that good.”

“Well, I liked it. I found it beautiful. And I got the impression that you were the innocent party in this altercation. For one thing, he was about to stab you in the chest.”

Sherlock hesitated, eyes narrowing, processing everything the selkie, John, had said, brain struggling to keep up. What sort of morality did selkies have? What did killing mean for them? Was it murder or just something that happened on occasion without repercussions? 

“Why aren’t you with your people?” Sherlock asked.

John’s open expression shut down, his earnest and desperate friendliness clouding over.

“That’s none of your business,” he said. His sharp terseness vanished a moment later, eyes softening again. “Well, I’m glad to see that you’re calmer now.” He offered his right hand. “If you’ll please let me help you to the chair?”

Good bedside manner. The man… seal… _whatever_ … was a doctor. Five years for medical school. Two years for foundational training. He mentioned a surgery so he must be a GP, so three more years for that training. Two years living in this house given its lived in state. 

“Twelve years,” Sherlock said, triumphant at having arrived at another correct deduction among the chaotic maelstrom of his thoughts. “You’ve been living as a human for at least twelve years.”

John’s eyes widened in that all too familiar startled expression. 

“How did you know that?” John asked, retracting his hand. 

“You’re a GP. That’s the minimum amount of time it would have taken you to get your license and live here. Some of your furniture was new when you bought it. There’s some light wear to it. You’re organized, but not pristine. You take care of your things, but not to an excessive level. That indicates to me one or two years, with two being most likely. You picked a post next to the ocean and an isolated house, which you would need. No one’s suspicion would be aroused by the isolation since you’re a lonely man who doesn’t socialize. You never have visitors here. The sofa is only worn on one particular spot. Yours. There’s only one coaster on the side table. One tea cup. One chair. You live among humans, you take care of them, but you don’t intermingle with them outside of work. Why is that? Afraid that if you got too close to someone they’d figure out your secret? But you showed me. You insisted that I know. Why am I the exception?”

“You were bleeding,” John said, stumbling over the words, looking to the side instead of at Sherlock. “You had a head wound. You needed immediate attention. I couldn’t take care of you in my seal form. Speaking of, you really shouldn’t be sitting on the floor. Let me help you up.”

“You could have called 999 from a safe distance. You didn’t have to take the risk.”

“I’m a doctor. I don’t just leave people bleeding on the sand.”

“You could have gone off and transformed where I couldn’t see you. You didn’t have to do it right in front of me. And you certainly didn’t have to show me again after I’d already convinced myself that it was merely a hallucination. I could have gone on being blissfully unaware that impossible creatures exist, without my entire worldview being utterly wrecked. Why was it so damn important for you to flip my world upside down? Why?”

Remorse burned in John’s eyes, but Sherlock didn’t care. Fuck his guilt. Fuck his frustration over people not believing in selkies. Fuck his neat house and the loneliness in his eyes.

Oh. Right. Of course. Was that it? Was he tired of not having friends and leading a sad, little existence cut away from the world? Well, boo hoo. Why was that Sherlock’s problem? Why couldn’t he just bury himself in his work like Sherlock did? 

“I’m sorry,” John said, suitably chastised. “I didn’t think it through. When I saw you injured, I just reacted. But I shouldn’t have brought it up again later. You’re under my care and I took advantage. Please let me help you back to the sofa. Please.”

He held out his hand. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at it, the hand of a mythological being that had no right to exist and yet had manifested itself in front of him as solidly as the floorboards pressing under Sherlock’s body. If Sherlock touched him, it would continue proving that John was real and not just some deranged figment of his imagination. Sherlock met his eyes, those begging, regretful eyes, so human looking, every inch of him such a perfect replica of a human. Sherlock reached out, gasping as he touched John’s solid flesh. John smiled gratefully and crouched down beside Sherlock to pull him up, careful not to jostle Sherlock’s injured ankle too much. 

He deposited Sherlock gently on the sofa, making sure that his ankle was well raised on a cushion. He placed another cushion behind Sherlock’s back. 

“Are you comfortable?” he asked. 

Sherlock nodded shakily, keeping a watchful eye on John, who took another look at Sherlock’s bandages to make sure nothing was amiss.

“Do you want some more water?” John asked after a bit.

“No.”

“Okay. Um, you really should tell the police where we are. We’ve kept them in the dark about that for a long while. Won’t it look suspicious?”

“It hardly matters what it looks like. I follow my own methods.”

Yet Sherlock grabbed his phone anyway, eager for some tangible reality that operated according to the recognized and sensible laws of science. Five unread messages and two phone calls from Gregson. He had been quite keen to find the missing detective. Although he'd hardly been missing. Only swallowed up by the rabbit hole into Wonderland, being driven mad by a kind eyed sea creature who was only trying to help while begging for a friend. 

Sherlock’s fingers shook as he pressed the right sequence of keys to call Gregson. Damn it all. It was only a selkie, not some dragon come to gobble him up. 

John better not say that dragons were also real. There was no chance in hell that Sherlock was believing that. Every ounce of energy went into keeping his voice steady as he told Gregson John’s address, hanging up when the DI began to complain about Sherlock going MIA.

“They’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” Sherlock informed John.

“Okay.” John stood awkwardly at his side, rubbing his hands together and scratching the back of his neck. “They’ll need a statement from me, then.”

“Obviously. I’d leave out the part about you being a selkie. Claiming such ridiculous things tends to undermine one’s credibility.”

John’s lips pursed, but he nodded.

“How are you feeling now?”

“Like everything I know is a lie and I’m a bloody idiot. How should I be feeling?”

“Right.” John rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t think. It’s been a long time. I just… I wanted… I don’t know.”

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his eyes, starting to pull his legs to his chest before his right ankle sharply reprimanded him for the action.

“You’re tired of hoarding your secret in your lonely existence and were desperate to share it with someone, and you chose me because I was there. I was convenient. And wounded. You saved my life. I owe you my continued breath. That gives me a strong incentive to not betray you, as though I even would. I would be a laughing stock if I said anything of this. And you like my musical talent. Perhaps you even find me attractive.”

John looked down, blushing. So obvious.

“You do find me attractive. How tiresome.”

“I’m not going to chat you up or anything. Don’t worry. You’re right. I’m tired of keeping it to myself. I really didn’t think of all those things, though. My medical instincts really did kick in when I saw you injured. But… I suppose that must have been in the back of my mind somewhere. Um… Look, you don’t have to speak to me again after this. You don’t owe me anything for saving your life. That’s not why I did it. We’ll just go our separate ways and never see each other again.”

“That would be the best thing to do.”

Once he was back in London, Sherlock would do his best to delete this whole incident and be free from this madness. 

````````````

The wrap up of the case was eternal. Sherlock stayed while John gave his statement to not have a mismatch in their stories later on, and was obliged to ride in the back of Gregson’s car. Apparently, Gregson felt bad that Sherlock had almost gotten himself killed by both a man and a seal, and insisted on seeing him safely to his hotel. John provided him with some crutches to hobble with, still looking insufferably guilty. Much better than carrying him, Sherlock supposed. It would have been much too embarrassing to suffer that indignity in front of Gregson and his officers. Yet John still insisted on helping him into Gregson’s car, arranging his ankle comfortably on the seat.

“Well, um,” John murmured after doing so, glancing nervously at Sherlock with a shy smile. “That’s all, then.”

“Yes, it is.”

Sherlock’s sharp tone undercut the plaintiveness in John’s face, which fell even further. 

“Right.”

The word was a sad murmur, but Sherlock would not be guilted. He needed to get away from this man and forget everything that had happened as soon as possible, if he even could. But he must try. For the sake of sanity, he must. 

His fingers tapped relentless on his lap for the entire ride, all his energy taken up in preventing himself from flying into a meltdown in Gregson’s car. He didn’t need that extra embarrassment on top of everything else. He couldn’t show himself to be so rattled by a simple murder attempt, for that’s what it would look like, nor could he speak to anybody about this, so his usual tactic of rambling on to the nearest ear, whether they wished to hear him or not, wouldn’t work in this instance. He needed to be alone so he could rant in peace and begin the deletion process. Complaining about the distance only served to irritate Gregson, but at least Sherlock wasn’t the only annoyed one. Spreading the misery felt really good sometimes. 

Unfortunately, gratitude over Sherlock solving his crime for him overrode Gregson’s frustration once they arrived at the hotel, so instead of letting him go on by himself, he escorted him all the way up to his room, as if Sherlock might collapse at any moment. 

“This isn’t my first sprained ankle,” Sherlock grumbled, refusing to hand over his keycard to swipe at the room door. “I can handle myself.”

“Since you’re injured,” Gregson said with that obnoxious hangdog expression he’d had since he found Sherlock hurt at John’s house. “I can probably convince the department to pay for an extra night.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m leaving in the morning. Bye now.”

Stepping inside, Sherlock shut the door in his face. 

Finally! God, he’d been gong completely mad. He hobbled over to the desk and sank into the chair, opening his laptop, his left leg jiggling with nervous energy, left hand tapping so hard on the desk that it hurt, but he couldn’t stop. He should have brought cigarettes. What on earth had possessed him to come here with no cigarettes? He could call the front desk. They could get him some, couldn’t they?

No! He was going to quit. He was absolutely determined to quit. He couldn’t cave in now just because his mind was turning into soup inside his skull because of some puppy faced doctor who could do a neat trick of turning into a seal. Scrambling inside the desk drawer, he pulled out two nicotine patches and slapped them on his forearm.

Into the computer, he typed the URL for the train company so hard that the sharp clicking of the keys made him wince. He was getting out of here on the first available train. 5:15am? No problem. Normally, he hated the early ones, but there was nothing normal about today. Nothing at all. Why did he have to take this damn case? He should have stayed in London. There was no need to ever leave the city. Just because he’d been missing a bit of countryside and wanted a change of scenery and some inspiration for his music, which hadn’t even worked, anyway, except to draw the attention of impossible beings and their lonely, begging eyes. Some doctor John was to torture Sherlock with the lunacy of his existence. Hadn’t he sworn to do no harm? Well, killing a man was certainly doing harm, but that was beside the point. He had been saving Sherlock in that case, not damning him to never be able to trust his senses or his convictions ever again.

So ghost were real, were they? No need to indulge in the mental exercise of the abominable bride ever again. There was no secret conspiracy of living women. Mr. Ricoletti had been killed by his wife’s ghost. The ghost was real. All ghosts were real. Well, some were probably still fabrications, but who knew which ones anymore, since now some had been granted the honor of reality. And he really should be careful not to step into a fairy circle the next time he was in Ireland, or disturb a fairy tree. Who knew what kind of horrors those tiny beings would visit on him for the audacity of dismissing them as a preposterous fiction for so many years. 

How about witches? Also real? Kelpies? Oh, there was certainly a Loch Ness monster. How could he have ever doubted it? He must head to Scotland right now and beg its forgiveness. Perhaps it would be moved to give him a ride on its back. 

Oh, no, that wasn’t a good idea. It might suck him under the water and trap him in a another world, a world of magical nonsense where a single day was centuries on the Earth. Or something like that. How did that story go again? He really shouldn’t have deleted so much from his mind palace. Who knew the treasure trove of riches that lay in fairy tales, the knowledge to be gained, the truth staring him right in the face? 

He should look up selkies. Right now. Learn everything he possibly could. Arm himself with knowledge. John might have been lying about there being no life debt. Were life debts even a thing in fairy tales or had Sherlock seen that in a movie somewhere? 

No! What was he doing? He closed the tab of the Wikipedia entry on selkies, stabbing at the touchpad. He had to forget all this. Reading about it would only make it worse. He had to forget.

He rocked back and forth in his chair, face sunken in his hands, a muffled scream screeching in his throat. 

_Forget_ , he begged himself. _Please forget._

But how the hell could he do that with the selkie’s own bandages wrapped around his body?! He should have met Gregson on the beach, after all. Let someone else, a third party, take care of his wounds, someone he’d never have to think about again. But he’d been so damn curious about John, hadn’t he? He’d just had to know more about this nude bather who’d shown up out of nowhere and had ducked away shyly after listening to Sherlock play a halfway mediocre composition. Which John had liked. Beautiful, he’d called it. Only people who appreciated music owned record players anymore, much less used them. So the feedback was hardly worthless. 

Great. A creature of legend, who had been said to enchant men for centuries, found Sherlock’s music beautiful. Sherlock should be flattered. He was flattered. The praise of strangers never mattered to him, but John had saved him from a humiliating death, so “stranger” felt like the wrong term to use with him. Acquaintance fell far short, too. Never mind that Sherlock was supposed to forget about him altogether. He could fabricate a false memory in his place. That was possible. He’d never accomplished it, but he’d heard of it. Then he wouldn’t mentally flinch every time that his wounds hurt or he had to change a bandage or Mr. Hudson cooed over him getting hurt. 

But was that what he really wanted? To make his own past a fiction? How could he ever trust his own memory if he did that? 

No. He couldn’t do this. He had to remember. Had to face the truth, as horrible and nonsensical and agonizing as it was. He had no choice. His breath shuddered as he pressed Cancel on the train ticket order form. He dropped his head on the keyboard, gasping, sucking in stubborn breaths, an invisible fist crushing his throat. His cuts and ankle ached, screaming at him despite the painkiller that John had given him. Such a caring doctor for someone so selfish. Why did Sherlock have to bear the burden of his secret? Why couldn’t John have chosen someone else? Sherlock didn’t even live here, for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t be John’s friend. He didn’t want to be John’s friend. He wanted to go home to a world were selkies weren’t real. But that wasn’t possible, was it? 

Why had he insisted on following John home? Why? He’d thought it was all a hallucination. Why did he have to press the issue? Why had John intrigued him so? And why did part of him not want to let go?


	2. Chapter 2

It took only a few moments in Google to find a John Watson, MD in Dover. He was a GP at a surgery not far from Sherlock’s hotel. If it weren’t for the aching inconvenience of his ankle, Sherlock would have gone to see him first thing the next morning, but he found himself forced to call his office instead. He had already informed the front desk of his hotel that he, and not the police department, would be paying for the rest of his stay, the length of which remained undetermined. It was easy to convince John’s receptionist that he was a friend who had lost all his contacts after having his phone stolen, so could John please ring him back when he got the chance? 

John took an infuriatingly long time to do so. Sherlock stewed for over two hours at his laptop digging up everything about selkies that he could find, constantly checking his mobile in case he had somehow missed the sound of a text or a call despite the phone never leaving his side. So what if John had patients to see? How was the one person who knew his secret, who he had been so desperate to befriend, not be top priority? There was no other Dr. John Watson in town. It had to be him. 

The mobile finally rang. Sherlock jumped, startled despite his desperate anticipation. Unknown caller. Local number. Sherlock picked up the phone, staring blearily at the screen, thumb hovering over the green Accept key as Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata played on.

_No turning back now._

He pressed the green key. 

“Hello?” he answered. 

“Sherlock?” came John’s uncertain voice. “Is that really you?”

“Of course it is.”

“I didn’t think I’d hear from you again. You were so adamant yesterday.”

“I changed my mind. Will you meet me when you get off work?”

“Yes. Of course. I would love to.”

He would. John’s relieved smile was palpable through the phone. 

“I’m staying at the Loddington House hotel. Can you pick me up?”

“Of course. I’ll call you when I’m on my way. Probably after seven. I don’t think I can get away before then.”

“That’s fine.”

Even if it would make for a desperately long day. That was six hours from now. He’d be climbing up the walls before then. Or he would if this blasted ankle didn’t keep him trapped to the chair.

“Thank you for this,” John said. “I really didn’t expect it. You seem calmer now about it. How are you feeling? Have you been taking your medication?”

John had supplied him with plenty of painkillers and antibiotics yesterday. 

“I’m alright. We’ll talk about it later. I’ll expect your call.”

Sherlock hung up far more abruptly than he’d meant to, but his breath had been clenching in his throat and he was about to go croaky any moment. He was really doing this. Entertaining the madness that was acknowledging magical creatures. There was no escaping it now, for he would keep that appointment, even if it drove him fully round the bend.

```````````````````

John called at 7:19. Ten minutes later, he entered the hotel lobby, where Sherlock sat waiting for him, thumbs tapping at the crutches before him. His heart jumped when he spotted John, beating faster, making his palms sweaty. The selkie was here. That all too human face and body could disappear in an instant under a seal skin, transforming into an impossible being that Sherlock still couldn’t make heads or tails of. He approached Sherlock, smiling, eager to please. Yet he had bags under his eyes, which were slightly red rimmed from lack of sleep. He’d had a fitful night of it, and a long day at work, too. His har was ruffled. Could be from the wind, or from passing his hands through it too many times. The cuff of his left sleeve was wrinkled in two spots, sharp creases from being grasped at and bent too many times as John worried at it. 

“Hello,” John said brightly. “I’m glad to see you again. My car is just outside. Parked a bit illegally. I’m afraid we have to hurry before someone complains.”

“Best get a move on, then.”

Sherlock’s breath stopped when John wrapped an arm around his shoulder to help him up, his left hand touching lightly over his ribs. A non-human hand. A warm, caring, yet _not human_ hand. Why was Sherlock being so stupid? John had already carried and bandaged him. Sherlock should be used to his touch by now, to the terrifying yet exhilarating reality of it. Once Sherlock had his left foot and crutches securely under him, John stood back to let him hobble outside on his own, yet kept a watchful eye on him, examining him with a medical eye.

“I’ve been taking my pills, doctor,” Sherlock said. “No need to fret.”

“I’m not fretting. I’m only making sure you’re alright. I have the feeling that you tend to do as you please, no matter what people tell you.”

“I was perfectly cooperative when you treated me yesterday.”

“True, but you refused to let me carry you to the car.”

“I’m glad you abstained from such an offer today. I can make my way perfectly well on my own, as you can see.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have crutches at the beach. And we’re on firm pavement now, not rocks.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. Good point. Hobbling on his remaining good ankle might have been precarious on such unsteady ground. He had not thought of that before. 

“I had a head injury,” Sherlock muttered, stopping before the car. John opened the passenger door for him, which was beside the curb. “And I was almost killed. I can hardly be blamed for not thinking at my best.”

John’s face softened in understanding.

“Well, I won’t hold it against you. Do you need help getting in?”

Nice of him to ask this time. The curb was rather high.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Please.”

John took him by the torso again, easing him onto the seat. Once he was down, Sherlock pulled his legs inside, careful to arrange his right ankle into the least painful position. John shut the door for him and went around the car to get in. He pulled away into the road, driving them back towards his house. 

Sherlock’s pulse ratcheted up again. What was he doing? Surely getting into a car with an eldritch creature couldn’t be a good idea. Sherlock had no baseline for John’s species to work from, nor for his morality, or even what he considered friendship. But Sherlock wasn’t working off of nothing. John had cut himself off from a regular life on the sea to become a doctor. And not even an ambitious, careerist one. He was a regular GP. Everything about his manner so far showed that he genuinely liked helping people. His excuse that he had transformed in front of Sherlock at the beach to help him swiftly might be partly true. Faultiness of memory aside, when Sherlock had run the incident in his mind again last night, he had gotten the impression that John truly hadn’t been fully aware of his actions or their consequences. A good doctor’s instinctual reaction to seeing a hurt person was to help them, and John had just saved his life. 

“How are you feeling today?” John asked, carefully glancing at Sherlock.

“I told you. I’m fine.”

“You were pretty freaked out yesterday. Again, I apologize.”

“There’s no need. It happened. There’s no taking it back now. The only thing I need… want, is knowledge. I need to know how this is possible. How you are possible. What is real and what isn’t. Will you tell me?”

John nodded. 

“I’ll tell you what I can. It’s the least I can do.”

Yes, it was. At least John sounded suitably chastised about foisting this horrible truth on him, not that Sherlock would be letting him off the hook so easily. 

“In the interest of full disclosure,” John said, “I looked though your website. I didn’t Google you specifically,” he added in a rush. “I wasn’t trying to get in contact with you or anything. What I was looking up was ‘consulting detective’. You never explained what that was and I couldn’t quite make sense of the dynamic between you and the police. Your site came up. And I clicked on it.”

“There’s no need to sound so guilty about it. Anyone would have. But you did consider getting in touch when you saw my contact information, didn’t you?”

The awkward pinch in John’s face said it all.

“Of course you did,” Sherlock said. “Again, anyone would have.”

“I didn’t, though. I… I didn’t think I’d get a reply, so I didn’t bother. But then you called me, so that worked out.”

Had it? Would diving deeper into this dizzying rabbit hole work in Sherlock’s favor after all? 

“Did you like the site?” he asked, staying on a sensible subject for as long as he could.

What the hell did that dubious frown on John’s face mean?

“Well, it certainly is interesting.”

Interesting?!

“That’s what people say when they hate something but don’t want to be rude about it. You’re a medical man. Surely, you can appreciate the scientific rigor of my work, if nothing else.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” John said hastily, seeking to rectify his error. “It really is interesting. And thorough. Studying two-hundred-and-forty-three varieties of tobacco ash is very detailed work. It’s impressive.”

“Then what didn’t you like about it?”

John’s right shoulder scrunched in an uncomfortable grimace. Sherlock rolled his eyes, patience wearing thin.

“I’m not going to change my mind again and demand that you return me to my hotel. What didn’t you like?”

John sucked in a stalling breath. 

“To be honest,” he said, voice a bit stronger and less apologetic now. “Some of your claims are a bit far-fetched. How could you possibly identify an airline pilot by his thumb?”

“Farfetched? You’re a mythological creature, but my deductions, which are based solely on good observation, are too far-fetched?”

John’s jaw tightened.

“I’m only mythological,” John raised his right hand in sardonic air quotes, “because humans decided to ignore what was right in front of your noses because it didn’t fit their narrow-minded point of view.”

“I’m not narrow-minded. Your existence defies all reason.”

“Yet I do exist, despite your pig-headed insistence that I’m some hallucination. Your brilliant deductive skills were hardly in top form yesterday, were they? You ignored your observations in favor of the less likely conclusion.”

“It was not the less likely. It was the only conclusion any sensible person would have drawn.”

“It was wrong.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, throwing his head against the headrest.

“Yes. I was wrong. Thank you so much for that reminder. Never mind that I already acknowledge the insane fact that you exist by ringing you and getting in your car. I’m sorry I can’t be right all the time. But I most certainly can tell an airline pilot by his thumb, just like I can tell that you hike frequently, you have no musical talent, but wish that you did, and you’re frequently on holiday.”

“How did you know that?”

Sherlock felt no rush of satisfaction at John’s startled look, only annoyance at having has talents questioned, and by some miraculous being, no less. 

“The trainers you wore yesterday. New Balance walking shoes. Good for light terrain like the one by your house. They’re no more than a year old and you clean them, but not regularly. The white base shows mud and grass stains and abrasions from walking on rocks. You only gave yourself time to put on the fastest thing that you could, so those must have been the shoes you had closest at hand. Since yesterday was your day off and you’re wearing different trainers today, cleaner ones, those are your leisure pair. The fabric and shoelaces were slightly damp, as was some mud caked at the soles. It rained in the morning, but only a drizzle, not enough to deter a determined hiker from his usual stroll. 

“As for your lack of musical talent, that one too easy. You love music. That would be clear to anyone who glanced at your sitting room. Yet the only instrument around, a guitar, is covered in dust. A light layer. You do clean it on occasion. But the strings are still new, hardly touched. Nor do your fingers show evidence of you playing on the regular or recently. There are tiny calluses on the tips of your right fingers, but fading fast. You had taken up the activity, but then stopped. There’s a book on how to play the guitar on your bookshelf. The creases on its spine only reach halfway through. You began studying it, but gave up. Why would you give up if you had any talent? If you played any other instrument, that would be in the guitar’s spot. Your body would also show signs of it, which it doesn’t.”

“How do you know I can’t sing?” John asked, sounding cowed by Sherlock’s observations.

“You have a book on playing guitar. You would have at least one on singing, but you don’t. Your bookcase is arranged by subject. It’s unlikely that you have one elsewhere.”

“Okay. Um, what about me going on holiday?”

“You collect souvenirs from your trips. Posters. Knickknacks. Books. This figure of Daffy Duck.”

Sherlock pointed at the small, plastic toy glued to the dashboard.

“I could have gotten them online.”

“But you didn’t. This isn’t the sort of stuff people shop for on their phones. It’s gift shop memorabilia. You also have a picture taken from a bridge in Prague as the lock screen of your mobile. And you have a US plug adapter and voltage converter in your laptop bag, which you left open in the sitting room. That was your last trip. To Universal Studios. This figurine is brand new. No dust on it. And you have a tan. You were recently somewhere with plenty of sunshine, sometimes wearing a t-shirt and shorts, and sometimes a bathing suit. Florida fits the bill. You likely went to Disney World, too. Not Sea World, though. I can’t imagine that would be a pleasant experience for you.

“You travel as often as you can. That’s why you chose the human life. You love the land life, so you suck up as much of it as you can. The sights, the food, the music. Art in general. You have books on everything. Photography. The cinema. History. Fiction. Humans fascinate you, but not only our endeavors. You practice medicine. Anatomy. Disease. How the human body works and how it breaks down. Selkies take human form, so this might be typical behavior for your kind, yet I sense that this isn’t so. Not to this extent, anyway. If this lifestyle were common to your kind, you wouldn’t need to reveal yourself to a stranger just to have company.”

While Sherlock spoke, they had arrived at the house. John turned off the car and sat quietly, absorbing what Sherlock said with frowning brows and tense shoulders.

“Is that all you have observed?” he asked, voice low, resigned to Sherlock’s probing, yet also guarded against further intrusion.

“I don’t want to say more and enter the realm of speculation.”

And the last time that he had annoyed John, the man had transformed into a seal and given him a panic attack. John pursed his lips, sucking in a breath through his nose, and tapped the steering wheel.

“I appreciate that,” he said after a moment. “Well, once again, I have to apologize. You really are very observant.”

“Nothing far-fetched about it.”

Sherlock spat out the word as if it tasted acrid.

“Yet not observant enough to realize beings like me exist.”

Sherlock shut his eyes in exasperation, a disgruntled sigh dragging out of his throat. 

“With all your study of humanity, you must realize what it sounds like to someone like me to even entertain the notion that selkies might be real. There’s no place for beings like you in my world view. At least, there didn’t used to be.”

“Like I said. Narrow-minded.”

John turned to him with a satisfied smile that completely wiped away his earlier contrition, but it was too teasing for Sherlock to mind much. As much as it grated at his sense of reason, John was right. Sherlock had been narrow-minded. Selkies existed. John was one. There was no denying that. How could he ignore the evidence of his own senses just because it was too difficult to bear?

“Should we go inside?” John asked.

Sherlock sensed that John was giving him time to process the devastation that was his shattered perception of the world. He wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful or even more foolish for not considering what should have been impossible. 

“Alright,” he muttered, opening his door. 

He waited for John to fetch his crutches from the back seat and hand them to him, accepting his help in getting out. A chilly wind beat his hair against his face, strong enough for his coat, yet John was still dressed in a single jumper. Granted, people had different tolerances to temperatures, but there might be more to it here.

“Can you tolerate cold better because you’re a selkie?” Sherlock asked. 

“I hadn’t really thought about it. I guess so. I certainly don’t cover myself up as much as everyone else does.”

John unlocked the front door and held it open for Sherlock, who swept his gaze over every detail of the house as he made his halting way to the sofa. He plopped down, placing his crutches against the armrest, and raised his legs, maneuvering himself into the same seating position as yesterday. John hurried to bring him a couple of cushions to place behind his back and under his right knee. 

“Have you changed these bandages today?” John asked.

“Yes. Around noon. One. At some point.”

“That’s long enough. I’d like to take a look. See how you’re progressing.”

“By all means, doctor.”

John left the room, returning soon with his medical kit. He checked Sherlock’s cuts first, declaring them free from infection. His touches were gentle, lingering only as long as they were needed. Sherlock sucked in a quiet breath every time that those warm fingers grazed his skin. The sense memory of sleek flippers rose in his skin, possessing deadly strength that Sherlock had witnessed with his own eyes, yet gentle as they grasped him, only showing him his power, the magical wonder of his true self, large, blue eyes pleading with him to understand that this was him as well, this incredible event was real, that there was more to this world than Sherlock’s limited knowledge had perceived. That Sherlock was safe with him. Those strong limbs would heal him, not hold him down while vicious teeth tore at his throat. 

“Your heartbeat is elevated,” John said, hand pressed to the pulse point in Sherlock’s ankle, the bandage half unrolled. He frowned up at Sherlock, worry in his eyes. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”

Sherlock shook his head, both to reassure John and in an attempt to clear it from the anxious fog that he’d fallen into.

“No more than the usual ache,” Sherlock said, cursing how shaky he sounded. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“It must have been something stressful for your heartrate to shoot up like that.”

The creature that had executed such murderous violence yesterday peered at him with such concern, his hold soft and cautious on Sherlock’s ankle, his motions deliberate as he peeled back the bandage, careful to cause as little distress upon the injured tissue as possible. Sherlock’s ankle was a big, purple bruise in John’s hands, which stroked lightly atop his foot, checking that he hadn’t missed anything in his examination yesterday. Did selkies have doctors? Or was this discipline another human activity that John had wished to submerge himself in?

“It’s as well as can be expected,” John said, laying Sherlock’s foot down on a squishy cushion. “Is this comfortable?”

Sherlock shifted his foot a bit until he reached a position that didn’t hurt too much.

“It will do.”

“I’ll bandage it again in about a half hour.” He frowned suddenly, uncertain. “That is, if you’re willing to stay that long.”

“I doubt that my questions will all be answered in that short amount of time.”

“Okay. Good. Um, are you thirsty? Hungry? I’m going to grab myself something to eat. I’m starving. You’re welcome to join me. I have spaghetti and meatballs and Tikka Masala in the fridge.”

Anxiety over his predicament had robbed Sherlock of his appetite, but he stopped himself short of refusing John’s offer. Something about the bond of breaking bread with this intriguing being enticed him. 

“I’ll have some spaghetti, thank you. And tea.”

John nodded.

“Spaghetti and tea coming right up.”

He left for the kitchen, which was just across the sitting room, visible through an open doorway, so Sherlock could see him moving about. While he waited, Sherlock took another look around the sitting room, but the only change from yesterday was a discarded teacup on the side table next to an open box of biscuits. Chocolate chip. A control remote lied atop it. John had indulged in comfort food and telly last night. It might be a habitual activity, but given his desperation to make Sherlock’s acquaintance it hardly seemed coincidental. There had been no disregarded biscuits there yesterday. And he’d slept badly. Sherlock’s rejection had been a rude shock. He had stayed up late zoning out on telly and biscuits before falling asleep on the sofa, probably grabbing the afghan draped over the back at some point in the night, too tired or depressed to go upstairs to bed. The cushion that now propped up Sherlock’s back had been wedged against the opposite end when he sat down, bearing a distinct head print. 

Sherlock steepled his hands and raised them to his mouth, breathing softly on the tips of his fingers as he considered his situation. He’d have to inform Mrs. Hudson that he wouldn’t be home for a while. He certainly couldn’t leave now. His questions needed answering, and John, this impossible being, was too intriguing to pass up. The terror still burning in his blood melded with an aching fascination as he turned his gaze toward the kitchen and the man heating up a plate in the microwave. Such a commonplace activity. So mundane. So human. To look at him, one would never suspect that he was anything more than what he seemed. A thirty-something doctor with no social life and a passport filled with stamps from all the trips that he couldn’t get enough of. Yet what wonders lied beneath that misleading façade. What unexplored depths of mystery. A new puzzle stood before Sherlock, one that he had never dreamed of being gifted with. He would untangle that puzzle, work at the guarded locks of John Watson until he laid bare the fire that burned in those tenacious eyes and uncover the raw truth that pulsed beneath. Only then would Sherlock be soothed enough to return to London and his work. His mind was a dervish of bewilderment and panic, a dizzying, choking morass sucking him under, and the man who had shoved him into it was his only lifeline for getting out. 

Sherlock flinched at the squealing of the kettle. The cut in his torso jerked, protesting the movement with a sharp sting. He sat back, eyes closing, and breathed slowly through his nose, trying to calm the heightened beating of his heart. 

“Are you okay?” John asked, his footsteps into the sitting room slow and uncertain. 

Sherlock turned to him. John was worried again. Always worried that Sherlock would run away and refuse any more contact, dooming him to an unhappy life of lonely telly watching and biscuit binging in the middle of the night. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, only a wisp of discomfort entering his voice.

John put a couple of heated plates down on his desk. 

“You looked freaked out.”

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, distracting himself with the light sound. 

“It’s going to take some time for all this to settle. You can’t expect me to process it and be completely fine from one day to the next. But I’m not going to run out. I can’t even run, anyway. So put that stupid idea out of your head. I already told you I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Yes, I know. But it’s hard not to worry when you look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to crawl under the covers and never come out.”

Sherlock’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. 

No. _Stop it._ That looked too defensive. Hs arms flailed about for a moment, not knowing what to do with themselves. He yearned to fold his left leg up to his chest and hug it, but that would look worse in this situation, and he was not having it. 

“I’m not going to crumble at any moment,” he muttered. So what if he was pouting? As if he cared. “I’m not made of glass.”

“I didn’t say you were. Do you want to eat on the sofa? Or do you want to move to the table?”

“I’m okay here.”

John nodded, bringing him a cushion to put the plate on his lap. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, schooling his expression to as close to impassivity as he could muster. 

“You’re welcome. I’ll be back in a sec with the tea. Milk and sugar?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Two sugars.”

John returned soon with two cups. He pulled the side table over beside Sherlock and placed them there, setting up a chair for himself in front of him, and sat with his own plate in his lap. Sherlock grabbed his cup and took a fortifying sip. It was still too hot to drink comfortably, but he needed the boost. John, for his part, did the same with his share of spaghetti, nervous gaze lowered to his plate as he hastily swallowed a mouthful. He smiled at Sherlock, so eager and desperate to please

“So?” he asked. “Where do you want to start?”


	3. Chapter 3

Selkies did have doctors, after all, but they weren’t anywhere near as involved as their human counterparts. Selkies were hardier than humans, healed much more quickly, and were resistant to disease, so they didn’t have a need for the myriad of procedures that human doctors engaged in. John had been this sort of doctor before he joined the ranks of human medical students, so it had been a straightforward transition when he decided that living on land appealed to him more. He provided plenty of detail about the selkie lifestyle. About migrating for thousands of miles with the seasons just like the non-anthropomorphic seals did. Visiting distant shores in human form and blending in with the locals with the aid of secret catches of clothes and money set up by a haphazard network of selkies that spent more time on shore than most. John was not the only one who spent much of his time on land, yet he was still unusual in having preferred it for such a long stretch of time and for having made a career for himself in the human world. For most selkies, land visits were a holiday, a chance to engage their advanced minds in activities only possible in human form. 

“There’s no shift in intelligence from one form to another,” John said. “It’s more like our priorities change. Certain needs and desires that are more important in one shape become muted in the other. I don’t think much about art and hiking when I’m in seal form. And when I’m in human form, I’m not constantly thinking about hunting for fish, although I still eat a lot of it. 

“But after a while, I do start missing the ocean. Being immersed in the cold water, surrounded by the company of my fellows. Playing in the seaweed, exploring the wondrous underwater vistas that your documentarians only catch a tiny glimpse of. It’s the same the other way around. There are so many wonders on land that you can’t even imagine in the ocean. And your cities are incredible. Not even the merpeople have anything like it. And the land animals are fascinating. You know, I considered becoming a veterinarian for a bit, but I wanted to work with humans more. Now don’t laugh, but I spent a lot of my childhood obsessed with squirrels. It’s their puffy tails. They’re just cute. And clothes are amazing, too. When we’re in human form on our own where humans can’t see us, we don’t bother with these.”

John plucked at his shirt for emphasis.

“But they’re fun to wear,” he continued. “I don’t care for synthetic fibers, but wool and cotton feel really nice.”

Sherlock had long ago finished his dinner, having scarfed it down as quickly as possible to get it out of the way. Now he cradled his tea cup on the cushion in his lap, the familiarity of the object grounding him as he listened to tales about the act of transforming one’s entire body being as commonplace as changing one’s shoes. He gripped the cup more tightly than normal, but his eyes were fixed on John’s face, captivated by every word, every gesture. John had a habit of rubbing right beside his right eye whenever he struggled to phrase an explanation in a way that Sherlock could understand. His eyes lit up when speaking of playing with his fellow selkies like children at the beach, and the terrifying wonder of watching an octopus change its skin into a whirlwind of different colors and textures within seconds. 

Yet they grew even more delighted when he described his awe upon standing in the tower of a bridge in Prague and gazing at the medieval city spread out below, painted in reds and golds from the sunset. Or being thrilled by the simple taste of chocolate ice cream. Or exploding in laughter when watching the slapstick antics of Monty Python. 

“Is that all that drew you to a land life?” Sherlock asked. 

John glanced around the room, an amused smile on his face.

“As observant as you are, you can surely figure it out. You can’t play guitar in the ocean. Not that I can do it here, either. I really have no talent at all.”

Sherlock grimaced in sympathy. Sherlock had suffered through some mediocre spots, as he was now with his current composition, but to not be able to play at all, to yearn to produce music yet completely lack the ability to do so must be the most wretched feeling. 

“Nor can you play a record in the sea,” Sherlock said, opting to switch to a form of musical appreciation that John could engage in.

It earned him a little smile.

“No, you can’t. Nor are there paintings or films. Or tea.” John raised his cup. “Also brilliant. The small trips weren’t enough for me. Every chance I got, I stayed for more time until it was too difficult to do so without some sort of proper documentation. So I decided to get some. We have people who do that, too. Most don’t decide to go to uni, though, and I’ve never heard of anyone else going to medical school.”

“Because that would involve spending too much time on land?”

John nodded. 

“It’s frowned upon to be here for so long. One is supposed to spend most of one’s time in the sea, not on land. This form,” John looked down at his arm, “isn’t supposed to be the primary one.”

“Why not? Are not both forms equally whole and sustainable?”

“They are. It’s more of a cultural thing. We’re born to the ocean, so we’re naturally more drawn to it. Or most of us are. I miss it when I’m away from it for too long, a lot, but I’m more drawn to the land. Always have been.” A rueful smile jerked on his face. “Makes me a bit of a weirdo.”

Sherlock frowned at the restless way that John tapped at his cup. 

“Does that bother you? It shouldn’t.”

John shrugged.

“It doesn’t as much anymore. It’s more annoying than anything else.”

“It’s why you have such little contact with your kind, isn’t it?”

John nodded.

“I’ve met a couple of selkies on land, but we aren’t in contact. And none of them have been here as long as me. Choosing to base my life here and not in the sea is viewed as a rejection of who were are as a people. Saltwater is our life’s blood. Turning your back on it is like spitting in the face of your ancestors. Never mind that I haven’t turned my back on anything. I live by the ocean. I go for a swim every chance I get. No, I’m not joining the migrations and being an active member of society, but I’m no less a selkie because of it. I haven’t forgotten who I am. I’m just not what they want me to be. I can’t just reprogram myself to be happy according to their whims just because they are time honored traditions.”

“Traditions,” Sherlock scoffed. “Boring.”

John snorted. 

“Yeah. They are boring, aren’t they?”

John’s smile diffused the tension that had been hunching his shoulders and heating his voice, even as it enhanced the lovely fire burning in his eyes. Sherlock gazed at him, fascinated in a way that had nothing to do with wonderment over selkie culture. 

“It’s high time for me to bandage your ankle,” John said, putting his mug on the table.

Grabbing a fresh roll from his kit, he sat on the sofa, scooching toward Sherlock as he placed his ankle on his lap. Sherlock’s breath stoppered for a second at the position and the warm feel of John’s hands. Were all selkie hands this warm? Was their body temperature higher than a human’s? But if they were distinguishable from humans by their vital signs, their existence would be more apparent. 

Yet as John continued to wrap the bandage around his foot, Sherlock’s preoccupation with biological differences faded, his focus narrowing exclusively on how those hands felt and not what their temperature might signify. John, as always, was treating him with careful care, making sure that the pressure on his flesh was firm, but not too tight or painful. His hold shifted from his sole to his heel and to his lower leg as necessary, his touch gentle. Always so gentle. Sherlock wasn’t much accustomed to being touched other than by Mrs. Hudson and the occasional pat on the shoulder from Lestrade. Yet he enjoyed it immensely despite not having much chance to receive it. Flustered awe from being touched by a non-human gripped him now. The sensation of John’s thigh pressing against his heel and his hands gently tending to him made his breath grow short and his eyes narrow at John’s downturned head. He struggled to keep his toes still and not wiggle them in restless confusion at how much he yearned to lean into John’s touch and gaze at his face until he’d gotten his fill of every freckle, every laugh line, every sand-colored eyelash. Handsome in a puppy dog way, Sherlock had called him. An accurate assessment, but his regard was no longer so flatly objective. 

“Why guitar? Why that instrument in particular?”

Sherlock surprised himself by the questions. It hadn’t been formulated as much as burst from him. He need to know John better. Not the selkie. John. 

“It’s the first instrument I remember hearing,” John said. “We went to this music festival in Galway when I was small. All I remember are bits and pieces. I’m not sure how much of it is real anymore, but I have this clear image of a woman onstage playing a guitar. It was a folk song, I think. If I’ve heard it since, I can’t recognize it. Who knows how much of it my brain has altered every time I think of it. But I know that moment happened. The feeling of joy and wonder at hearing that amazing sound was very real. There’s nothing like that in the ocean. We sing. That we do. Not me. You do not want me to sing for you. It sounds horrible. But instruments don’t really come into it.”

John taped Sherlock’s bandage closed and returned his foot to the sofa. Sherlock pursed his lips, displeased at losing his comfortable spot on John’s lap. 

“An instrument-less existence sounds ghastly,” he said. “I don’t know how anyone could stand it. You absolutely made the right decision moving here.”

“Just so I can listen to music?”

“You have to follow your passions. Else your spirit will shrivel up and life will be a relentless agony, then what is the point of living at all? Your people don’t play instruments. I don’t see how you could have possibly stayed there without going mad.”

John chuckled knowingly.

“I was going mad. I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself. I don’t regret moving here for a minute.” He glanced around the house. “It’s not quite everything I envisioned, and there are things about my old life I miss, but I can listen to Philip Glass whenever I want and travel by train or plane much faster than I can swim.” He frowned. “Although, to be honest, I would rather swim.”

Sherlock smiled. 

“Fear of flying, have we?”

“Not fear, no,” John said emphatically. “It’s just unpleasant.”

“I can read the lie in your face, you know.”

John narrowed his eyes at him.

“That one was obvious, not some display of your amazing powers of observation.”

Sherlock’s smile widened.

“You think they’re amazing?”

“I was being sarcastic and you know it. But… I do have to concede that they are pretty amazing, if everything you claim in your website is true.”

“It is. I would never oversell my abilities.”

John snorted.

“I find that hard to believe.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“You doubt me?”

“No, you just seem like the kind of person who always thinks they’re the smartest person in the room.”

“I am always the smartest person in the room.”

John raised a scoffing brow at him.

“So you think you’re smarter than me?”

“Don’t take it the wrong way. I don’t mean it as an insult. I’m smarter than practically everyone else. It’s just a fact.”

John nodded to himself.

“Right. Not smart enough to know that selkies are real, though.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“For God’s sake. You know what that sounds like to most humans. You have to know.”

“Yeah. Most humans are idiots.”

Sherlock gaped at him, then a laugh burst from his mouth. He bowed his head, conceding the point.

“Well played.”

John smirked.

“I know.”

“Well, then. Would you kindly continue educating me on all the beings I’m woefully ignorant of?”

“It would be an honor to fill in the gaps of your meager education.”

Sherlock grinned.

```````````````````````````

John returned Sherlock to his hotel after eleven, far earlier than Sherlock wanted to be back, but John did have to get up early the next morning. Sherlock didn’t understand what was so onerous about calling in sick or what John having recently come back from holiday had to do with anything, but John ignored his sensible arguments and bundled him into his car. At least Sherlock got an extra fifteen minutes of driving time to suck up more information about the ridiculous reality that was fairies and leprechauns, a subset of the former. 

Who could have guessed that the silly people claiming that little, magical beings would come after you if you disturbed their trees were correct all along? The ridiculousness of it all was no less disorienting now than yesterday, nor had his buzzing mind calmed one bit, but the terror that had previously gripped him was gradually fading in favor of an unquenchable fascination. He needed data, all of it, everything that John could tell him. everything that he had always scoffed at and refused to consider as real. The study of fantasy and myth had once being irrelevant other than to understand artistic allusions, but his work would suffer if he was blinkered to the true nature of the world around him. The next time that someone came to him with a supposed haunting, he would have to consider that it might be an actual ghost. A hoax was still equally plausible, but that was the thing, wasn’t it? It had gone from being the only possibility to just one option. 

Sherlock couldn’t get himself to sleep until 3am, having to satisfy himself with tapping on the bed with his hands instead of pacing around the room as he watched Blue Planet on his laptop. He’d seen it before, but as an inspiring distraction, so he hadn’t catalogued most of the details in his mind palace. Now the dramatic images developed a new significance. This was John’s native world. Like John had pointed out, the documentarians could only catch the merest glimpse of it, but this was the closest that Sherlock would ever get to visualizing the wondrous seascapes and animals that John had described to him in such fond detail. That is, except for the selkies and merpeople. Magical jellyfish also existed, for some reason, although they at least looked the part, but none of them appeared in any of the documentaries John had seen, including this one, nor were the seals featured selkies. They stayed well away from any nosy humans with cameras. Likewise, selkies and seals stayed away from each other.

“They can sense we’re not like them,” John had said. 

So Sherlock wasn’t able to get an inside glimpse into selkie society by observing the seals fish and frolic on screen, yet John said that their behaviors were very similar, just like they were similar to humans. Sherlock got nearly three episodes in before he drifted off to sleep. 

The next day was as unbearably long as the last. John would pick him up after work, but Sherlock was stuck on his own until then in a bland hotel room without having the mercy of soothing his restless jitters by taking a walk on the cliffs, which was half the reason why he’d taken this case in the first place. His injured ankle allowed some weight to be placed on it, but only for very limited, necessary increments like going to the bathroom or getting himself from the bed to the desk. He kept watching the most relevant bits of Blue Planet, then continued with Blue Planet II and the ocean episodes of Planet Earth. In the meantime, he looked up more legends on his phone and texted John a barrage of questions about everything he was reading and seeing. John sent a frustratingly tiny amount of replies, most of which were basically, “I’m busy, I’ll tell you tonight”, as if that wretchedly eternal wait could possibly be acceptable. This was the most extraordinary event that had ever happened to Sherlock and he was supposed to wait? For fuck’s sake. John had been the one who insisted on letting Sherlock in on his secret in the most spectacular way possible. How did that not merit ditching work until every one of Sherlock’s questions was satisfied? 

At 6:13, John texted that he was on the way. Sherlock rushed downstairs (if hobbling along at an annoyingly slow pace could be called “rushing”), and met him in the lobby. Their evening was a sequel to the one before. John tended to Sherlock’s injuries, they ate dinner, and John answered Sherlock’s large backlog of questions. They watched pieces of the documentaries for analysis. 

But not the segment of great white sharks hunting seals. John flinched when they were mentioned, his shoulders hunching and distressed gaze falling to the ground as he scrambled for the remote at his side, handing it to Sherlock. 

“Can you please fast-forward past that?” he asked, voice small and aggrieved. Sherlock acquiesced, skipping ahead to a nonviolent segment on otters while John kept his gaze firmly on the floor, hands curled into fists on his lap, his left trembling until the danger was past. Concern pooled in Sherlock’s belly, but he didn’t comment on it. This was the one segment that he had not inquired about. The answer was obvious enough. Why wouldn’t selkies have natural predators? John had clearly had a run in with a shark. Or someone he knew. Or both. Yes, both evidence of a personal trauma and grief appeared in the desolate wrinkling of his brow and the tormented gasping of his breath. 

 

They watched the otters in silence, Sherlock making sure to only look at John from the corner of his eye so that he wouldn’t feel stifled by being observed. Perhaps he should have asked if John was okay. He clearly wasn’t, so such a question would just be stupid and insulting, but people didn’t take it that way. They seemed to use it as a “how are you?” even though that answer was equally obvious, and Sherlock was never in the mood to answer. He’d rather just be left alone. But would John prefer that? Was Sherlock being accommodating or insensitive by his silence? Should he place a hand on John’s shoulder in reassurance? How was he supposed to know what to do? This was the first time that John had reacted like this. Sherlock had no past experience to work with. 

Should he ask if John was okay now? No, too much time had passed. It would look weird. 

Or would it? Screw it all. How the hell was he supposed to know?

“My cousin was killed by a shark.”

The suddenness of John’s voice startled Sherlock.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said mutely. 

That was the only appropriate thing to say under these circumstances, wasn’t it? John nodded, lips tight.

“I’ve been chased by sharks a couple of times, too. That’s why I… Well, you’re so observant. You probably had already figured it out just by looking at me.”

“I had. But I didn’t want to pry.”

“Thank you for that.” 

Only when John turned to him did Sherlock dare meet his eyes. It wasn’t an empty gesture. Genuine gratitude softened John’s upset features.

“You’ve been inundating me with questions all day,” John continued. “But you didn’t ask about this. I appreciate that.”

Sherlock’s choice to leave it alone and not ask if John was okay had been the correct one, after all. He sighed silently in relief. 

“It didn’t seem right to.”

John smiled tightly. Sherlock lowered his gaze. Now that they’d cleared the air, it might be the right time to make the request that he had been mulling over the whole day. That is, if it was appropriate to make it all, which he had no idea about, so might as well give it a go.

“I’ve been wondering,” Sherlock said, licking his bottom lip. “If you don’t mind, would you transform in front of me again?”

John shot him a quizzical look.

“You’re not doubting your senses again, are you?”

Sherlock grimaced at the mild accusation.

“Of course not. I just want to see it when I’m calm and not… Well… Freaked out.”

John was silent for a moment, then stood up.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

He went upstairs. Buzzing with glee, Sherlock leaned back on the sofa and steepled hands on his face, which broke into a wide smile of ardent anticipation. He’d been craving to see this again since yesterday, but there hadn’t been time to ask. Of course he wasn’t doubting his senses, but fear could warp and alter memories, and he needed to be absolutely certain of what he saw. Besides, how could he pass up the opportunity to behold such an amazing sight? He wasn’t afraid anymore.

Mostly not afraid.

No, he wasn’t afraid. He had been neck deep in selkies for two days and John wasn’t going to hurt him. It would be ridiculous to be afraid of him now. So why was he so jumpy when John’s steps descended down the staircase? His breath shortened and he had to wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers as he stared at the seal skin John held to his midsection. He was naked once more. It made sense. Much less awkward than changing down here in front of Sherlock. A glimmer of uncertainty clung to John’s face as he stepped forward, peering at Sherlock, likely verifying that Sherlock did want to do this and wouldn’t fly into hysterics like last time. Heat burned Sherlock’s cheeks in embarrassment, which was compounded when John, in a grand show of cosmic irony, asked if he was okay. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock huffed. “Ignore my face. It’s being stupid.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his legs, hands tapping at each other between his knees to show his eagerness. When John hesitated, eyes still narrowed as if unsure whether to believe Sherlock or not, Sherlock smiled in a thoroughly disarming way, burying the frustrated anticipation crawling under his skin. He wanted to see John transform already. Not that he could demand that. Of course not. If John changed his mind, then so be it. 

_Please don’t change your mind._

“Okay, then,” John said, not sounding fully convinced, but he was extending the skin. Sherlock clasped his hands, hardly daring to breathe as John sat on the floor and pulled his skin over his head. The effect was as shocking and fascinating as before. In a quick, few seconds, the man disappeared and a seal emerged in his place. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he gasped. An icy tremor ran down his back and arms, but it wasn’t fear. He wasn’t cowering this time, not moaning in distress as his world view imploded around him and a primordial terror screamed through him. The hours spent with John telling him stories and soothing his injuries had done the trick. An awed smile bloomed on Sherlock’s face as John edged forward, slowly at first, large, black eyes watching Sherlock so carefully, so concerned with not spooking him this time. Sherlock’s smile widened and he reached out with his right hand, palm up.

“I’m not going to run this time,” he said.

John rewarded him by skipping up to him and sitting up on his front flippers, raising his altered face to Sherlock’s, its long snout making him look like a friendly dog, but Sherlock wasn’t about to tell him that. Instead, he held his hand above John’s head and asked,

“May I?”

John nodded and made a friendly grunt. Sherlock lowered his hand. Thick, soft fur greeted him, exotic and wondrous. Sherlock’s face hurt from so much smiling. After a while, he forced himself to stop. This was John, not merely a cute animal. He had fully expected his request to pet him to be denied as too presumptuous. 

Hs smile faltered. How did selkies feel about this sort of contact? Had Sherlock been inadvertently flirting with him? John wouldn’t take it that way, would he? He was in seal form, for God’s sake. Surely, he couldn’t expect Sherlock to be thinking of that while John looked like this. 

John scooted back and his flesh rippled again, revealing human-shaped John beneath the loose, brown skin. John sat up, wrapping his skin around his waist while looking at Sherlock with bemused anticipation, as if expecting to be graded.

“Thank you for showing me that,” Sherlock said. 

John smiled. 

“You’re welcome. You handled it a lot better this time. I have to admit, I was a little worried that you wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think I would.”

“Well, I’m glad. I’m just going upstairs to get some clothes on.”

John returned soon. While he was gone, Sherlock had debated whether to ask how John interpreted Sherlock touching him, but decided not to ask. 

“So,” John asked as he sat back on the sofa. “What did you think now that you weren’t freaking out?”

Sherlock looked him straight in the eye.

“I think you’re the most magnificent being I have ever seen.”

Now it was John’s turn to blush. He looked down at his lap with a smile so pleased that it bordered on shy. 

“Um, thank you. No one’s ever called me magnificent before.”

“It was high time someone did. I feel glad and privileged that you told me the truth of who you are. I hated you for it at first, but I am happy about it now.”

“Great. That’s great. I’m glad I told you, too. Very glad.”


	4. Chapter 4

_I’ve been kidnapped by a man who claims to be interested in your welfare. He’s tall, late 30s or early 40s, dark red hair. He knows my documents are fake._

Sherlock gaped at John’s shocking reply to his query about sea turtles for half a second before calling Mycroft, fury boiling inside him. Mycroft answered at the first ring, no doubt anticipating the call.

“He’s unharmed,” Mycroft said, as infuriatingly nonplussed as ever.

“Of course he is. Not even you would be that stupid. Why can’t you stay out of my life for once?”

“Because when I leave you be, you tend to make impulsive, dangerous decisions far more stupid than anything I could ever do. John Watson didn’t exist before twelve years ago, and according to every source available to me, this man didn’t exist before then, either. There is no record of him. Why would that be?”

“None of your business.”

“A man with no record who just happens to find you at the beach at an opportune moment and has become friendly with you is my business.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched so hard that pain radiated through his teeth. 

“I trust you have a car waiting for me downstairs, else you wouldn’t have let him text me. I’m going to go fetch him, and he will be leaving with me.”

Sherlock hung up on him and hurried downstairs, cursing his ankle for preventing him from moving faster than a snail’s pace else he risk tripping on his crutches and crashing to the ground. A black car was waiting at the curb when he exited the lobby, staffed by the usual grey suited minion, who held the back door open for him. 

“I can manage on my own,” he bit out when the man offered to help him get in the car.

Sherlock flopped unceremoniously onto the seat, his ankle aching as he pulled it inside, but he refused to let so much as a wince show on his face as he set the crutches beside him. No other minion sat in the car, thank God. Mycroft knew better than to subject him to the grating company of that personal assistant of his who didn’t realize that a world outside of her mobile even existed. He pulled out his own mobile and called John. Mycroft would let him take the call. There was no reason for him not to since Sherlock was on his way, anyway.

“Hello,” John answered, tone firm and unwavering, yet he couldn’t disguise a trace of disquiet. 

“I’m headed there right now. That’s my brother Mycroft. He’s basically the British government. But don’t worry. I won’t let him hurt you, understand? You will be okay.”

“Okay.”

John’s voice was as terse as before, but Sherlock heard a hint of relief. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he said before hanging up. John wouldn’t want to speak in more than one word answers with Mycroft looming in front of him like an overgrown bat out of some mediocre vampire film. 

The minion drove him to an abandoned office building. Not Mycroft’s usual over dramatic style, but he probably had to make do. Sherlock refused the minion’s help again as he struggled to get out of the car without falling flat on his face. Mycroft had sequestered John in a conference room on the fifth floor, a dingy, musty smelling place filled with the vestiges of old, dusty desks and chairs that no one had bothered taking. Mycroft exited the room as the minion led Sherlock through the cubicles toward it. Sherlock greeted him with a furious glare.

“Just what the hell do you hope to accomplish with this little show, Mycroft?” Sherlock hissed.

“To keep my brother away form a possibly dangerous influence,” Mycroft said, as impassive as before. 

“He is not dangerous.”

“That has yet to be determined. You can see him.” 

Mycroft stepped back from the doorway, so graciously giving him leave to enter this dump that he had stuffed John into. As if he could possibly keep Sherlock out. John was standing close to the door, his feet planted firmly on the floor, but his hands were half closed into fists at his sides and he peered with guarded wariness between Mycroft and Sherlock, his hostility for the former keenly apparent, refusing to be intimidated. He nodded at Sherlock to let him know that he was alright. Despite Mycroft’s reassurance, Sherlock scanned him for marks of manhandling, but John looked untouched. Mycroft would have displayed a show of force and overwhelming odds to coerce John to come here. A black carb pulling up to the curb as John made his way down to the corner café to grab a sandwich. Two, no three of his minions surrounding him. A gun in its holster casually shown to show John the futility of resistance. John having no choice but to get in the car and be brought here to be interrogated by the most dangerous man he was ever likely to meet, who Sherlock should have warned him about. He should have known to warn him about. 

_Curse you, Mycroft._ Why couldn’t he let Sherlock be for once in his life? 

“So this is your brother, then?” John asked, as casually as if they had all run into each other on the street.

On the inside, Sherlock grinned at John’s fortitude. On the outside, he scowled at said brother.

“Yes. It’s a cross I have to bear.”

Mycroft’s detachment finally withered into an unimpressed, sharp glance that would have turned into an eye roll if they didn’t have company. 

“Likewise,” he said. “Now that you’ve seen him and verified that he’s fine, we should talk in private.”

“Yes.”

With another reassuring look at John, Sherlock started hobbling towards the door. Mycroft glanced at Sherlock’s ankle. He wanted to protest that Sherlock shouldn’t strain himself, that he should stay here while he had John moved to another room, but Sherlock only hurried his pace, almost plowing through him as he opened his mouth. 

“Where am I going, exactly?” Sherlock asked acerbically as he stood at the doorframe.

Mycroft sighed, always so put out by Sherlock, and waved his hand to the left. 

“This way.”

He closed the door behind them and a minion quickly stepped in to guard it. Mycroft led him to a room two doors down. It was empty save for a desk shoved against the wall and an old computer chair. 

“Please sit down,” Mycroft said. “You shouldn’t be standing for so long with that sprained ankle. Which you didn’t even deign to inform me of.”

“I don’t have to tell you about every little nick and cut I get. And no thanks.”

Sherlock scrunched his nose at the dust laden chair. With a long-suffering sign (please, as if Mycroft would have sat on a dusty chair), Mycroft left the room, returning in a couple of minutes with two folding chairs.

“Perfectly dust free,” he announced. 

He set them up in the center of the room and sat down, looking pointedly at Sherlock.

“Do sit down, will you?” he said. 

Exasperation mixed with concern in Mycroft’s face. Sherlock ignored them both as he sat across from him, but only because standing on one foot while holding the other lightly on the ground, trying not to put too much weight on it, was tiring and painful, and he was annoyed enough as it was.

“What’s it going to take for you to release John?” Sherlock asked.

“The truth. Who is he and why have you stayed in contact with him?”

“Why shouldn’t I stay in contact with him? He’s been treating my wounds. Aren’t you always on my case about not getting proper medical attention? You should be happy.”

“Please. Doctors treat patients at their offices, not their homes, which you have gone to three times. Why? Who is he? Why are you so interested in him?”

“He’s a friend. I’m allowed to have friends.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. 

“You haven’t had friends since Victor moved away. That was years ago. You haven’t seemed interested.”

“I changed my mind. Am I to be lectured about that now? John is a doctor. He treated me right after I was almost murdered. We got to talking and found that we enjoy each other’s company. That is all.”

“What about his past?”

“There is nothing nefarious about him. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“There is no trace of him from before twelve years ago. As far as records go, he just popped up out of thin air one day. That does not say ‘not nefarious’ to me. Just the opposite. You know what his secret is. This would be a lot easier if you just told me.”

“It’s not my secret to tell. Why can’t you just trust me when I tell you that there is nothing dangerous about him?”

“Because you have a tendency of getting yourself into dangerous situations and lying to me about it.”

“Only because you keep hovering over me. I’m not a child anymore. I don’t need you watching over every step I take.”

“It is only because I watch over you that you’re still alive.”

Sherlock’s next words dried in his throat. He snapped his mouth shut, clutching his crutches in an iron grip, refusing to look away from Mycroft’s bitter gaze. Curse Mycroft for being right. Once he got on his moral high ground, there was no getting him off it. He would never back off and let John go, not until he got some answer that he could live with, and Sherlock’s couldn’t for the life of him think of any that would satisfy Mycroft’s dogged persistence. 

There was only one potential solution. Sherlock despised himself for even considering it. Mycroft would never accept it, not without proof, but it was not in Sherlock’s right to give him that proof.

“Let me speak to John for a minute,” he said.

“Why? So you can get your stories straight?”

“No. I need to ask his permission. It’s not up to me to reveal what I know.”

“You think he’ll tell me if you ask nicely?”

Sherlock leaned forward, eyes narrowing as irritation swept through his body.

“You can choose to trust me, but you won’t, so fine. You win. But I won’t tell you anything until he allows me to.”

Mycroft’s frown darkened, always so put out by Sherlock’s refusal to give into his whims. The frustrated expression would have normally filled Sherlock with delighted glee, but not today. This was too important. 

“Fine,” Mycroft said, waving a conciliatory hand as he stood up. “I’ll bring him in so you can ask away.”

A few moments after Mycroft left, John came in, looking no less agitated than when Sherlock had arrived. His tense jaw and guarded eyes softened as he closed the door and turned to Sherlock, but he didn’t sit, too restless to do so. If it weren’t for this damn ankle, Sherlock would be pacing right alongside him. 

“What did he say?” John asked. “Is he going to let this go?”

A heavy sigh dragged in Sherlock’s throat.

“I’m afraid not. He doesn’t trust my vouching for you without more information.”

“He doesn’t trust his own brother? I take it you don’t have a good relationship, then?”

“A difficult one. I may have lied to him in the past about my affairs. He has, annoyingly, tasked himself with my safety, and he sees your mysterious past as a threat.”

“Just telling him that I’m not some shady, foreign agent certainly hasn’t been working so far.” John’s hands clenched at his sides, swinging tensely back and forth, head down, lips pursed. “I never planned for this. My documents weren’t designed to hold up to the scrutiny of British Intelligence and overprotective, older brothers.”

Sherlock rubbed his crutch with his thumb, lowering his eyes.

“I apologize for not warning you about him.”

John shook his head. 

“No. I didn’t mean… I don’t blame you. I don’t even blame him, really. He’s being a good brother, I suppose. You’re involved in plenty of dangerous situations. I do seem quite the dodgy character from his perspective.” John sat down with a tired sigh. “So what’s the plan? How do we get him to back down?”

John met his eyes, quietly begging for Sherlock to rescue him from his spooky brother. Sherlock tapped the crutch, stalling. 

“We need to give him something.”

“Okay. What?”

“I need to tell him that you saved my life.”

John narrowed his eyes.

“I treated you for superficial wounds and a sprained ankle. That hardly looks like…” His eyes widened, shock and terror alighting in them. “No.” John leaned forward, lowering his voice to a near whisper as he raised an emphatic finger. “Absolutely not. He’s not going to believe you, not unless I show him.” He sank back in the chair, covering his mouth with his hands, gaze skittering around the room before he leaned forward again, expression desperate again. “Is there nothing else you can tell him? No other way to convince him?”

“Unless you can go back in time and be born again as a human with all the proper documentation, no. I’ve kept too much from him in the past for him to trust me when he detects something this suspicious.”

“It must have been something really bad for this kind of overreaction. You don’t have to tell me what it is,” John added quickly.

Sherlock hesitated for a second, then shrugged off his coat and jacket, and rolled up his sleeves above his elbows, showing John his puckered needle scars. John’s brows rose when he saw them, mouth opening in a silent “oh”. 

“For how long?” he asked softly.

“From school into uni. I’ve been clean for seven years, not that he’ll believe me. I have come close since then, but I haven’t indulged, much to my mental disappointment.”

“How about the smoking?” 

John glanced at the nicotine patch on Sherlock’s left forearm.

“That’s in and out. Three weeks for this last stretch. Your little revelation almost made me fall off the wagon.”

“Sorry,” John muttered. “I’m glad you didn’t and that you’re sober now. Does he think that I’m getting you drugs?”

Sherlock rolled down his sleeves.

“He can see that I’m clean, though he probably considered it at some point. But he has no incentive to trust you other than my word.”

“Which is tainted by you lying to him about this in the past.”

“Among other things, yes. I’m sorry. I don’t see any other way out of this.”

John sighed. He dropped his head back and he stared up at the ceiling with a bleary expression that slowly sank into tired resignation. 

“Can I trust him with this?” he asked, meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. “He’s not going to drag me away to some government facility and experiment on me, is he?”

Biological experimentation wasn’t the sort of thing Mycroft was into. Besides, there was no chance of him entombing John in Baskerville.

“He’s not going to harm the man who saved my life.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. As much of a pain as he is do deal with, he actually likes having me alive.”

“He cares about you.” John smiled ruefully. “It’s not a bad thing.”

His gaze turned away to some memory that Sherlock couldn’t ask about. Something had occurred between John and his family, something painful and life altering, beyond the death of his cousin. Sherlock was sure of it, but he couldn’t press the issue 

“I guess it has its uses. Are you alright with this?”

John shrugged.

“I have to be, don’t I? There’s no getting off his radar now.”

“I’m afraid not. I’m sorry. But I promise you, he won’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”

John didn’t look convinced. Sherlock had the sudden urge to smooth out his worried frown with his fingers and soothe him with his touch. 

He gasped internally. Where had that come from?

“Are you actually able to prevent him from doing anything, though?” John asked.

“Apart from the fact that he would go through the same laughingstock problem that I would have if I had gone to the presses bleating about discovering a selkie, he wants to maintain some sort of relationship with me. I’ll give him the explanation he wants, so he’ll have nothing else to complain about. That’s the deal I’ll broker with him. He can learn the truth and keep his mouth shut about it, or keep on wondering with no further word from me. He will take it. He could never live with the curiosity of not knowing what I’m up to.”

John’s eyes narrowed again, now more perplexed than concerned.

“You would threaten your brother like that for me? You’ve only known me for three days.”

Sherlock waved the question away.

“He will take the deal. I won’t have to make good on any threat.”

“In that case, won’t the threat be enough to get him to let me go without saying anything?”

Sherlock regarded him sorrowfully.

“I wish it could be that simple, but it’s too late. You’re already on his radar. Even if he lets you go, he will have you watched. He’s had me watched. He’s already been willing to sacrifice his relationship with me for my supposed good.”

 _His guardianship did keep you alive_ , whispered a treacherous voice in the back of his head. 

He flicked it away, annoyed. John crossed his right arm over his chest and covered half his face with his left hand. A heavy sigh droned through his fingers.

“I never thought that showing you my secret would take this turn,” he said.

“Put it out of your mind. It was too late for regrets three days ago, and it’s certainly too late now. You trusted me and I’m not going to back down from that. I promise you, it will be alright. So. Are we in agreement?”

John hesitated for a second, then nodded, scared but resigned to their lack of options.

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “Would you mind opening the door so he’ll know we’ve finished our tête-à-tête?”

“Sure.”

John stood up, masking his fear before opening the door. Not well enough for Mycroft not to notice his distress, but best spare him that detail. Mycroft entered the room almost instantly, closing the door behind him. John stood beside Sherlock, leaving the empty chair for Mycroft, if he wanted it, but Mycroft didn’t sit.

“A negotiation, then?” he said, looking between the two of them. “What do you propose I give you in exchange for telling me the truth?”

“Your word that you will not harass, incarcerate, spy on, or harm John in any way,” Sherlock said. “That you will leave him free to live his life without any interference. Oh, and you will provide him with foolproof documents so that he doesn’t have to go through this again.”

Mycroft raised an amused brow.

“That’s quite a demand. You won’t tell me anything until I agree, will you?”

“Not a word.” Sherlock smirked. “Decline, by all means. You know that we wouldn’t be so closed lipped if it wasn’t something fat and juicy.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.

“I can hold John indefinitely until either he or you caves.”

“You won’t do that.”

“Won’t I? Why not?”

“You know why.”

Mycroft glanced at John, rubbing the handle of his umbrella with his thumb.

“He matters to you. You always did get attached so quickly. So if I imprison him, you will cut off all ties with me. Is that it? I can’t imagine how you’d manage bailing yourself out of your own problems.”

“Easily.”

“I very much doubt that.”

Sherlock’s grip tightened on the crutches.

“We’re willing to give you what you want. The truth. You have no reason to refuse, but I’ll give you another one. You owe him.”

Mycroft frowned.

“Owe him what?”

“My life.”

The wheels turned behind Mycroft’s eyes as he peered at John, who stared back at him with steady determination, only betraying a bit of his fear now. Mycroft took longer to reply than normal, finally out of step, his mounting confusion so delicious that Sherlock would be grinning if this weren’t so important. 

“The thief was killed by an animal,” Mycroft said. “His injuries leave no doubt about it. So it can’t be that.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I’m afraid that I can’t tell you any more until you agree to our terms. So what’s it going to be, dear brother? It’s really not a hard decision to make.”

Mycroft titled his head with a tight lipped smile. Sherlock could practically hear him cursing in his head. 

“Alright,” he said. “I agree to your terms. I will leave him be and give him the documents he requires.”

“I need your word, Mycroft.”

Mycroft huffed.

“We’re hardly in a medieval epic, but fine. You have my word that John Watson has nothing to fear from me. Now, tell me. Who is he?”

“Not here. It will be better to show you than to tell you. We have to go to John’s house first. Only us three. None of your minions can be around. This stays strictly between us.”

“Fine,” Mycroft bit out, patience as thin as a sheet of tissue paper. “I’ll drive us there.”

The tension gripping Sherlock’s spine eased. He hadn’t noticed how agitated he’d gotten until his breath rushed out as he propped his crutches beside him. John wrapped an arm around his back, pulling him up like he had done several times before, continuing to hold him until Sherlock was steady on his left foot. 

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Mycroft watched them, pensive as he examined the easy interaction between them, the obvious routine of John aiding Sherlock, the famously ornery patient who despised to be mollycoddled except by Mrs. Hudson. He didn’t comment on it, but Sherlock could feel him analyzing every bit of the interaction and comparing it to everything else he’d seen and heard about them. They were silent on their way to the car, save for John urging Sherlock not to hurry too much on his leg.

“Listen to your doctor, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, which curdled Sherlock’s mood even further. He slowed down only for John’s sake, not Mycroft’s. The same car that had brought Sherlock sat waiting at the curb. Sherlock and John got into the backseat, John helping him in like usual. 

“I haven’t had you as a chauffeur in ages,” Sherlock mused to Mycroft as they drove off. “You’re not still climbing on the pavement, are you? Getting jostled is quite unpleasant.”

“That was one time,” Mycroft said. So testy. “And I was sixteen. You hardly did any better at that age.”

“Better than you.”

“Oh, please. In any case, I don’t think that John is interested in your poor recollection of our teenage years.”

“Oh, no, don’t mind me,” John said, looking between Sherlock and Mycroft with amusement. 

Sherlock balked for a moment at being viewed as entertainment, but the distraction seemed to be calming John a bit, and there was little that Sherlock enjoyed more than goading Mycroft, so he pushed on.

“My recollection is perfectly accurate,” he said. “I did better than you on the driving test.”

“You did not.”

“Yes, I did. I checked.” 

“You checked? Did you use my ID to verify that you did better than me on a driving test?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I was bored.”

Sherlock could feel Mycroft’s eye roll. He grinned. 

“Never mind all that,” Mycroft said. “Is there a reason why we’re going to John’s house beyond the need for privacy?”

Sherlock’s smile withered and John tensed again in his seat. Back to business, then.

“There is.”

“So there’s an object there that’s part of the secret.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, trepidation clutching his gut. 

“You haven’t had the house searched, have you?”

Fear flashed in John’s eyes.

“No,” Mycroft said. “I wanted to speak to the two of you first.”

Sherlock’s tight hold on his crutches loosened. John slumped back in his seat, gasping out a breath. The skin was safe. Mycroft was about to discover it, anyway, but if one of his minions had gotten a hold on it, that would have been an extra person unaccounted for, even if they couldn’t understand what they were holding. 

“I take it by your reactions,” Mycroft continued, “that this object mustn’t fall into the wrong hands. Is it incriminating?”

“Not incriminating. Stop trying to twist John into something he’s not.”

“It’s personal,” John said, left hand fisting on his lap. “Very personal.”

“And that’s what you need to show me,” Mycroft said slowly, pensive.

“It’s part of it, yeah.”

Mycroft was probably mentally combing through every object that could possibly fit the bill, all of which would be wrong. 

“You’re not going to deduce what it is,” Sherlock said.

“You’ve hardly given me enough information to attempt to deduce anything.” Mycroft’s frustration leaked into his voice. “But we’ll arrive at the house soon, and you’ll have to show me, anyway.”

Yes, they would. Sherlock turned to John, who was looking at Sherlock with acute apprehension, his impassive mask completely eroded by now. He pulled out his mobile and typed a message, which he showed to Sherlock.

_You’re absolutely sure that we can trust him?_

Sherlock nodded, mouthing “yes” even though Mycroft could see it in the rearview mirror, trying to impress upon John with his gaze that it was okay. His relationship with his brother might be a shamble of lies and underhanded manipulations, but Mycroft wouldn’t betray him like this. Nor would Sherlock, if it came to it. There had always been an invisible line in the sand that neither was willing to cross. Just because they didn’t get along didn’t mean that they didn’t care, not that Sherlock would ever be admitting that out loud, not for the greatest, most mind-tingling case in the world. 

They spent the rest of the drive in silence, arriving at the house a few minutes later. After Mycroft stepped out, John gripped the door handle and sucked in a long, slow breath, staring at the front seat. Sherlock did something he had never done since Victor. He placed his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It will be okay. I promise.” 

John turned to him. He looked startled, though Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. Did he not like Sherlock touching him like this? But when Sherlock dropped his hand, John patted him on the back, trying for a smile that came out more like a grimace, but his eyes were warm and grateful. 

“Thanks,” he said. “I trust you.” He took another deep breath. “Okay, let’s do this.”

They got out of the car. Mycroft was waiting by the door, looking off to the beach, though he had no doubt been watching them from the corner of his eye. That somber, pensive expression was back on his face. What did it mean? What was he up to now? John opened the door and they went inside. Sherlock went to his usual spot on the sofa and sat down, looking at John, who was trudging slowly toward the stairs.

“Please hold on a moment, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, halting John mid-step. He turned to Sherlock. “You can assure me that Dr. Watson is trustworthy?”

Sherlock sat up straighter, looking Mycroft firmly in the eye.

“Yes. You have nothing to worry about from him. We are friends. That is all.”

“Yes, I can see that. Pardon me for eavesdropping, but I saw how you behaved after I left the car.” Mycroft turned toward John, who had been observing the two of them with desperate hope pleading in his eyes. “I hope you realize how rare it is for my brother to be so demonstrative towards anyone.”

John looked at Sherlock in surprise. Sherlock fought the overwhelming urge to turn away and wiggle his fingers as Mycroft’s words sank in. He hadn’t meant anything by touching John’s shoulder. He had simply reached out automatically without a thought as to why he was doing it. It just happened. Like his urge to smooth out John’s frown lines and his desire for John to keep touching his ankle. It didn’t mean anything. Yet he didn’t have friends, did he? Victor had abandoned him so long ago. Lestrade sort of counted, he supposed, but he wasn’t filled with the urge to touch him. Mrs. Hudson was more like a surrogate mum. John fascinated him, but it went beyond his selkie nature. He liked him, felt comfortable with him. Had been overwhelmed with protective fury when John had been threatened.

“What are you leading towards, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, forcing his mind to shift gears back into the present moment. Mycroft continued to scrutinize him with surprise and close interest. Too close. Sherlock chaffed at the feel of it. 

“I’m not comfortable not knowing why Dr. Watson’s past is such a blank,” Mycroft said. “But I always do try to act for your good, Sherlock, as much as you push back against me. This time, however, I think I would be doing you harm by forcing your friend to reveal his secret.”

“Really? You’ll drop this? This isn’t a trick? If it is, Mycroft, I swear--”

Mycroft pursed his lips.

“I’ll be subjected to one of your epic sulks. I assure you, that is the last thing I want. There’s no trick. As much as I don’t want to let this go, I will. For you.” Mycroft turned to John, fixing him with a fiercely threatening look. “Provided that you truly are worthy of my brother’s trust.”

“I am,” John said. He spoke quickly, flustered and appeasing, no longer holding a brave front against Mycroft. “I swear. I’m not going to hurt him or do anything that could hurt him. Neither of you have anything to worry about.”

“We better not.” 

Mycroft shifted his umbrella back and forth about an inch, gripping it tightly by the handle. That was his disappointed motion. He been so eager to discover John’s secret before forcing himself to quit pushing.

“I suppose,” Mycroft continued, flashing a rueful smile. “That if you did save Sherlock’s life, the least I could do is trust you. For now.” He glanced down, frowning. “Although I can’t figure out how you managed that. You’ve never met before and the evidence from the beach was very definitive. If it’s the case that the seal turned to attack Sherlock and you saved him from it, there would be proof of it.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a look. Mycroft noticed it.

“That’s part of the secret, is it?” he said, smiling again. “Never mind, then. I’ll have the documents ready by this evening. Apologies for the rude interruption to your day, Dr. Watson. I’ll have your car brought here. Good day to you both.”

Tilting his head a fraction, Mycroft turned to leave. No aspect of his posture, his facial expression, or his tone denoted any dissembling or falsehood. He was actually choosing to live with the uncertainty of not knowing something and trusting Sherlock’s word because Sherlock had asked him to. 

“Thank you.”

The words were out of Sherlock’s mouth before he even realized that he had formulated them. Mycroft looked back, surprised, and tilted his head with a gratified expression. John was looking at them, but Sherlock only saw him from the corner of his eye, his focus on Mycroft until John’s voice rang out.

“Wait.”

Wait? Why was John telling Mycroft to wait? And what was he trying to convey as he turned to Sherlock with that inquisitive, uncertain, yet determined look? Sherlock couldn’t read minds.

No. It couldn’t be. If Sherlock had full use of his feet, he would be rushing across the room and pulling John into the kitchen to confirm that the insane thing that he seemed to be proposing wasn’t actually what he was proposing, not when he’d just escaped it by the skin of his teeth. But John was sitting beside Sherlock, his back to Mycroft, who had released his hold on the doorknob and was regarding them with an intense curiosity that Sherlock had been so looking forward to having go away. 

“Mycroft, get out. Wait outside.”

Mycroft shot him an irked look for Sherlock’s sharp tone, as if he wasn’t used to it by now, but he did as he was told. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock hissed at John. “He was almost out the door.”

“I know but….” John rubbed his forehead. “You did trust him to keep the secret before. He’s obviously as curious and tenacious as you and we’ve given him enough to go on. Do you think it’s likely that he’s just going to put this whole incident out of his mind and not try to figure out exactly how I could have saved your life?”

Sherlock dropped his head into his hands, groaning.

“I should never have told him that. But he’s never going to get it. He’ll never consider the impossible.”

John narrowed his eyes at him with a “really?” expression. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You know what I mean.”

“He’s as smart as you, isn’t he?”

Sherlock looked down, making a non-committal sound. John frowned.

“He’s smarter than you?”

Sherlock dropped back on the sofa, groaning again. 

“Yes. Fine. He’s smarter than me. It doesn’t matter. He’s never going to consider it.”

“You can’t know that just because you never would have. He might be willing to consider the… seemingly impossible.”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. Could Mycroft consider it? Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth. But what if nothing remained? John was right. Mycroft wouldn’t be able to put such a mental tease out of his mind, not when it was about Sherlock. There wasn’t even legwork involved. He could sit placidly in his armchair at the Diogenes Club turning over the puzzle in his mind, teasing out theories, each growing wilder as the previous one had to be discarded. Would he, desperate and out of ideas, allow himself to hypothesize beyond the realm of seeming possibility? 

“Sherlock? Does your silence mean that you think he could?”

Sherlock sighed heavily into his hands. He dropped them into his lap.

“Maybe. It’s very unlikely, but I can’t guarantee that he won’t. But chances are against it.”

John took a deep breath.

“You know, when I told you, I had no idea who you were. If you were trustworthy. It was bloody stupid of me, really. You could have sold me out to your super powerful brother and I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it. But Mycroft deciding not to press the issue even after we’d agreed to… You’re the better judge, but I feel much better about telling now that I’m not being coerced to. I certainly have established more trust with him than I did with you before.”

John did look much more confident than he had just a few minutes ago.

“Good point,” Sherlock said. “It was immensely stupid to trust a stranger like that. Think better of it next time.”

“I have. I’m not making an impulsive decision here. I think it’s easier to tell him. And having the British government on my side wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

Sherlock sighed.

“No, it wouldn’t. I’ll admit it does come in handy. It’s your decision. He will keep his word. I know that.”

“That’s all I need.” John stood up, tapping his hands on his thighs for a moment, gaze steady yet nervous on the door. “Okay, let’s do this.”

He opened the door, calling Mycroft back inside. 

“I’ve decided to show you, anyway,” John said once Mycroft had returned, every bit as curious as before. He frowned in puzzlement at John’s announcement. 

“Earlier, you would rather I imprisoned you than tell me anything. Why are you doing so now that you’re under no obligation to do so?”

“Because you decided to stop being an arse and backed off.”

Sherlock grinned. Now that John no longer feared Mycroft, he was free to be as blunt and confrontational as he wanted. The sight of him facing off against Mycroft, stance firm, steely gaze daring Mycroft to protest the insult, filled Sherlock with glee and an appreciation that sang in his bones. 

“I wasn’t happy telling you when I had no choice, but now I do. Sherlock says I can trust you. I trust Sherlock. And it’s easier this way than having you off on your own trying to figure out how what we’ve said makes any sense.”

Mycroft didn’t bother refuting that. 

“You better not make me regret vouching for you,” Sherlock told him, fixing him with a warning glare.

“I won’t,” Mycroft said. “To borrow your words to me earlier, Dr. Watson, you have nothing to worry about from me.”

“I’ll hold you to that. And call me John. We might as well be on a first name basis since I’m about to show you my biggest secret. I’ll be back in a minute.”

John went upstairs. 

“Well, sit down,” Sherlock said. “You’re going to need it.”

“What kind of secret can possibly be so shocking that I would need to sit?”

Sherlock smirked. 

“Oh, you’ll see.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, but followed Sherlock’s advice, joining him on the sofa. 

“You tried to talk him out telling me,” he said.

“Always my first instinct.”

“And yet he insisted. Why is that?”

“You heard him.”

“There’s more than that. Sentimentality over me being your brother? People are so prone to that.”

Sherlock shifted his healthy foot on the floor.

“That might be part of it. I also let slip a little too much when I told you that he saved me. There’s no way for you to stop wondering exactly how.”

Mycroft leaned back, the ideas percolating in his mind.

“No, that wouldn’t have been possible. The burglar was killed by an animal, wasn’t he?”

“A seal, yes. No, the seal didn’t attack me. Far from it. Under ordinary circumstances, that would be enough information for you to make a plausible deduction.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed further. 

“Meaning that the only option that I can think of wouldn’t be utterly impossible.”

Sherlock smirked again.

“Precisely.”

John came down the stairs, clad in a dressing gown, his skin bundled in his arms, bare feet padding softly on the steps. Mycroft’s eyes widened, taking in every detail of the scene, already putting the pieces together even if he was too skeptical to believe them. He turned to Sherlock, but Sherlock looked straight ahead, all his reassurance for John, who was nervous again, hands gripping his skin a little too tightly. He met Sherlock’s eyes and smiled briefly, letting him know that he was okay. Sherlock relaxed a fraction. 

“I’m going to have to get naked for a second,” John said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Sherlock frowned.

“You didn’t ask me if I minded,” he said. 

John grimaced.

“I know. I should have. Sorry.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s fine. I didn’t actually care.”

“That’s an animal hide,” Mycroft said, pointing at the skin as John unfurled it.

“Yes,” John said. “And you can tell what kind, can’t you?”

Mycroft turned to Sherlock again, this time getting in his line of sight and demanding to be acknowledged.

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe what you two are setting up here.”

Sherlock obliged his request for attention, yet he didn’t delight in Mycroft’s affront this time. Had Sherlock himself not been any less cynical? They were about to implode Mycroft’s world view around his ears. Sherlock should probably apologize. He almost did.

“All we expect from you,” he said, “is for you to look at John. Just look.”

Sherlock turned towards John, who had disrobed and was holding his skin in front of him, waiting for Mycroft to look at him. With a discontented huff, Mycroft did so. 

“I’d say don’t freak out,” John said, voice a bit jittery. “But you’re going to anyway.” 

With one more glance at Sherlock, John wrapped the skin over his head and torso. The magical transformation was no less astounding now than it had been all those times before. As it encased him fully and John sank to the floor, Mycroft stiffened, clutching his umbrella. John’s body slimmed, and his face lengthened into the adorable snout that Sherlock had petted. Sherlock’s heart thundered in his chest, breath growing short through the wide smile on his face, but it faltered as his delight retreated under the sudden onslaught of dread at Mycroft’s reaction. He wouldn’t have John carted away and experimented on, not after giving his word, not when it meant betraying Sherlock’s trust in such a vicious manner. Yet the icy grip of nerves gnawing up his spine gripped him still as he studied the fearful shock on Mycroft’s face and how every muscle was tensed so hard that at any moment they were liable to snap. Sherlock must have looked much the same when John had revealed himself to him.

John scuttled forward. Mycroft jumped up, seeking to flee. Sherlock grabbed his right wrist, halting him in his tracks.

“It’s alright,” he said soothingly. “You’re safe. It’s only John. The seal is John. It’s not impossible. I felt the same shock you’re experiencing right now, but this is real. John is the seal that saved me.”

Mycroft yanked on Sherlock’s hand, but he ceased trying to escape as Sherlock spoke. His spooked eyes didn’t leave John for a moment. John had stopped a couple of yards from them, sitting up on his flippers, calm and inoffensive. 

“He’s a selkie. You can’t be serious.”

Mycroft’s words were so faint that Sherlock barely heard them. He sounded like he couldn’t believe that he was even willing to admit to the possibility, just like Sherlock hadn’t been able to admit it to himself. 

“It is true,” Sherlock said. “Will you run if I let you go?”

Mycroft tilted his head toward Sherlock, but he couldn’t force himself to look away from John, so he nodded, a sharp, halting motion. Sherlock released his wrist. The umbrella pressed against the floor with a sharp thud, Mycroft’s knuckles white on the handle. Sherlock wrapped his fingers around it instead. Mycroft wouldn’t be using the weapons inside it, but Sherlock felt better having a hold on it. He would have taken it away completely, but Mycroft needed his comfort object right now. 

“How is this possible?” Mycroft asked. 

“I still have no idea. It just is. I thought I was hallucinating at first. Is it okay if John comes closer?”

Mycroft didn’t speak, but he nodded curtly. John moved forward. Mycroft flinched, taking a step back. Sherlock winced as the motion dragged him sideways. Mycroft finally looked at him, startled, and plopped down on the sofa.

“You can let go,” he said. “I’m not going to use it.”

Sherlock did so. John had stopped moving at Mycroft’s reaction. He turned to Sherlock with an inquisitive bob of his nose, as if asking if it was safe to move now. Sherlock nodded. John inched along the floor, carefully watching Mycroft, but Mycroft didn’t try to run again. He gaped at John, breath heaving in his chest, but not hyperventilating like Sherlock had been. John stopped at Sherlock’s right away from Mycroft, looking between the two of them. Sherlock touched his back, petting him softly without even thinking about it. John leaned into him, propping his front flippers up on the sofa, his right half on Sherlock’s lap. He grunted softly in greeting.

“See?” Sherlock told Mycroft. “Nothing to be scared of.”

“I’m not scared,” Mycroft said, scowling.

“Of course you are. I was.”

John lowered his head in a hand dog expression, groaning softly as if in apology.

“No, no,” Sherlock spoke quickly to reassure him. “Don’t feel bad about that. I’m fine.”

He waited for John to raise his head before turning back to Mycroft, who was peering at them both with narrowed eyes, straining to get himself back into control, his back straight and chin raised in a miserable facsimile of his usual impassive air. 

“I’m not scared,” he said, voice almost steady.

“Keep trying. I almost believed you that time.”

Mycroft huffed, fingers flexing on his umbrella in irritation.

“I understand that John isn’t going to attack me. It’s just taking me a little time to process the shock of all this. I doubt you did any better.”

John nudged Sherlock’s arm with his flipper. When Sherlock removed it, John sank to the floor, transforming back into human form. Mycroft startled again, eyes widening, although not as much as the previous time. 

“You’re doing pretty well, actually,” John said, standing up, the skin wrapped around his shoulders. “I was expecting worse.”

He went to the desk, where he’d placed his dressing gown.

“Was Sherlock’s reaction worse?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock scowled. He looked pointedly at John, who was frowning at him, looking awkwardly put upon. 

“No,” John said.

Mycroft smirked. 

“You’re lying.”

“This brave front you’re putting on is embarrassing,” Sherlock said. “Weren’t you terrified only a moment ago?”

Mycroft’s smirk withered into a scowl.

“I was not terrified.”

“Liar. Your breathing is still altered. I bet your heart rate is, too. And you’re gripping your umbrella like it’s the only thing keeping you from going insane.”

“At least I didn’t think I was hallucinating.”

“I had just been hit on the head. You would have thought the same.”

“Please. You didn’t even have a concussion.”

“Boys, let’s focus up, please,” John said firmly.

Sherlock and Mycroft frowned at him. 

“Did you just reprimand us as if we were children?” Sherlock asked, indignant. 

John grimaced.

“Sorry. But it worked, didn’t it? I don’t think you two getting into a row is the best thing right now, even though it seems like that’s just how you interact. Mycroft, it’s no use denying that you’re scared. On top of the things that Sherlock mentioned, I could smell it. I have far better senses than you in seal form. You’re not going to fool me. And it’s fine. It’s going to take you some time to process. Sherlock did.”

Mycroft pressed his lips in a tight line. Gradually, he loosened his hold on his umbrella until he wasn’t clutching it for dear life.

“It might take me a minute,” he said in a deliberate fashion, “to process this, yes. I never would have considered that this was even possible.”

“Nor would I,” Sherlock said. “Yet here we are.”

“Yes, humans are wrong about an awful lot of things,” John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“There’s no need to sound so damn superior about it.”

“Sorry.”

John’s cheeky smile belied his apology. 

“Are there a lot of selkies living incognito among the human population?” Mycroft asked, voice clipped. “Is selkie the right term to use?”

Of course the first thing Mycroft would want to know was whether there was a security threat he should be aware of.

“I only know of a few,” John said, pulling over a chair to sit before them. Mycroft watched his progress, but didn’t draw back this time. “But they’re not all in the UK. I’m a bit of an unusual case in having lived on land for such a stretch. Yes, we say selkie.”

John gave a brief overview of the basics of selkies, what other fantastical creatures existed, and why he had moved to the land. Mycroft mostly listened, but asked a few questions, growing calmer as he shifted toward data collecting and not being freaked out by the magical seal staring at him. He remained tense and on his guard, scrambling to comprehend how any of this was possible, but he wasn’t fleeing or having a panic attack. 

“Why did you show Sherlock your true nature?”

The sudden question put Sherlock on his guard. John hunched his shoulders and rubbed his hands on his lap, looking down for a second.

“I didn’t plan it,” he said. “Sherlock was injured. He needed help. My medical instincts kicked in.”

“There has to be more than that.”

“That part’s none of your business,” Sherlock said. 

Mycroft shot him a pointed look, scrutinizing him, but Sherlock refused to be cowed.

“Sherlock’s right,” John said, straightening in his seat. “It’s not. I’m explaining this to you as a courtesy because you’re Sherlock’s brother, but you can’t demand any answers from me.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said, concealing his disappointment. “I won’t impose. I am grateful to you and I don’t intend on appearing otherwise. Both for saving Sherlock and for showing me this. I acknowledge how precarious this is for you. Although part of me wishes that I still lived in a logical world without ghosts or leprechauns.”

“Oh, they don’t like being called leprechauns. It’s a bit of a slur.”

Mycroft’s face pinched at the ridiculousness of having to consider a fairy’s feelings.

“Good to know,” he said, conciliatory but still looking like he’d bitten into a rotten lemon.

Sherlock snickered, earning himself a sour glare.

“What are you laughing at?” Mycroft said. “Like you accepted the existence of fairies with calm composure.”

Mycroft stayed through dinner, having informed his minions that he would be unavailable for the rest of the day. Two of them had John’s car brought over, along with Indian takeout when John said that he had nothing made. His documents would be ready in the morning. Sherlock took over question-answering duty as best he could when John got tired of speaking non-stop. Sherlock bristled as Mycroft practically interrogated John He was bearing the nervous unpredictability of the day rather well, but it was still taking its toll. 

“Do you want me to kick out Mycroft?” Sherlock asked John when Mycroft was in the loo. “I’ll do so gladly.”

A smile jerked onto John’s tired face, but he shook his head. 

“I’d rather satisfy as much of his curiosity as I can now and get it over with. Besides, you were just as nosy, remember?”

Sherlock scrunched his nose at the accusation, light-hearted as it was, but couldn’t deny it.

Through the day and evening, Mycroft continued to observe John and Sherlock with careful study that wasn’t anywhere near as subtle as he thought. It was annoying, but Sherlock had long ago learned how to ignore Mycroft’s scrutiny. At least he was calmer by the end of the night, no longer tensing at every move John made.

“What intrigues you more?” Sherlock asked later as Mycroft gave him a ride to his hotel. “That I have a friend, or that said friend can turn into a seal?”

“Under the circumstances, it’s the latter. You certainly know how to throw me for a loop, don’t you? But it is unusual to see you latch onto someone like this. I had feared that it wouldn’t happen again. Mrs. Hudson is more of a mother figure. DI Lestrade is the closest you have had, and you can’t be bothered to learn his first name.”

“Of course I know it. It’s Graham.”

Mycroft’s ugly, diverted smile was palpable in the dark. 

“Wrong.”

“Geoffrey?”

“Wrong again.”

Sherlock scowled.

“Oh, what does it matter? I’m not going to be calling him by it, anyway.”

“My point exactly. I am glad you have a friend. You fare better when you have one.”

Sherlock slouched in his seat, staring out the window at the passing buildings, all much more fascinating than whatever Mycroft was going on about. He refused to say another word for the rest of the ride. Only when Mycroft pulled up in front of his hotel and fetched the crutches from the backseat did he speak.

“Thank you for being civil and keeping your word.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I could do.”

Despite Mycroft’s words, he looked pleased by Sherlock’s thanks. Mycroft handed him his crutches.

“Would you like some help?” he asked, tone making it clear that he expected Sherlock to decline. 

Sherlock almost did, but then he’d have to put too much weight on his right ankle and it would hurt. Asking Mycroft for one more favor today wouldn’t be too horrible, he supposed. He nodded. Mycroft raised his brows in surprise and slipped his arms around Sherlock’s torso to pull him up as Sherlock gripped the crutches at his sides. 

“Thanks,” Sherlock mumbled, hurrying into the building.


	5. Chapter 5

_Mycroft gave me my new documents_ , John texted the next morning. _He didn’t stay long, says he needs to get back to London. He thanked me again, which was nice._

 _It’s the least he could do after being so annoying_ , Sherlock replied. 

John sent a laughing emoji. 

_He wasn’t that bad. Ok, yeah, he was infuriating at first, but I got shiny, new documents out of it and the backing of the British government. I call that a good deal._

Sherlock huffed, but he couldn’t argue. 

Since his ankle was recovered enough that he could lean on only one crutch, Sherlock finally left the stifling confines of his hotel and took a cab to the local Waterstones. He buried himself in the nature section, grabbing every book on seals and marine life that he could find. He also stopped by the folklore section, but he already knew enough to determine that a good portion of them were outright fabrications. Still, in the interests of being thorough, he bought a scholarly work on ocean folklore. He sat in an armchair in the most deserted spot of the shop and read through lunch, only stopping once his stomach’s nagging couldn’t be ignored anymore. He went around the corner, downed an order of chips, then went right back into the shop to keep reading. A couple of the shopkeepers looked at him funny, but he’d paid for the books and there was hardly a high demand for the chairs on a weekday at 2pm, so they let him be. 

He asked John to pick him up at the bookshop. John found him halfway through the folklore book on a chapter about islands that mysteriously appear out of the fog only to never be seen again by the clueless, 18th century sailors who hadn’t even figured out longitude other than dead reckoning. 

“Please tell me,” Sherlock said as soon as John popped up behind a bookcase, “that there’s no such thing as magical islands. There’s only so much irrationality I can handle.”

John quirked a brow at him.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he said. “I’m well, thank you. How are you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why did everyone have to insist on these social niceties? What was so wrong with getting straight to the point?

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said. Might as well give in this one time to keep John happy. “Apologies. I’m not much one for…”

He waved his hand at the air between them, indicating the wasted seconds of unnecessary words they had just spoken. 

“Yeah, I’ve noticed. While we’re at it, I don’t appreciate the nature of my existence being categorized as irrational.”

Sherlock sighed, tapping the edge of the book.

“I’m sorry,” he said, genuine this time. “I won’t call it that again.”

John smiled. 

“Thank you. No, there are no magical islands. Your ancestors just didn’t know how to navigate.”

Sherlock shut his eyes and dropped his head against the backrest. 

“Oh thank God.” He looked back down at the book. “This was probably a waste of money, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

John peered at the fat, plastic bag beside Sherlock’s seat.

“You bought all these?”

“I had to. I needed to eat and I was afraid someone might grab them while I was out. Take a look. I know it’s better to just ask you, but I don’t want to keep hounding you with questions.”

“I don’t mind.” John crouched down beside the bag and reached in to flip through the books. “Well, I would like a break now and then, but I don’t want you to not ask questions. Most of the information in these should be accurate as far as most marine animals are concerned, but I don’t want you to get things wrong if I can help it.”

“Neither do I. You really don’t mind, then?”

“Not at all.”

“Good.”

Sherlock put the folklore book in the bag and started picking it up when took John it from his hands. 

“I can carry that.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock grabbed his crutch and pushed himself upright with John’s help.

“You’re down to one crutch,” John said. “That’s good. As long as you’re not overworking your ankle.”

They started walking to the exit.

“I’m not. I’ve been here all day except for grabbing some chips around the corner.”

A troubled frown wrinkled John’s brow.

“Is that all you had for lunch?”

“I needed to think. Eating slows me down.”

“No, it doesn’t. That’s the complete opposite of how this works. And you’re healing. Your body needs nutrients. I’m taking you out to eat. I’ve got nothing made at home. This will be faster.”

“I’m fine. I’m not that hungry.”

“Not that hun—” 

John cut himself off with an incredulous huff and the same look everyone got when they couldn’t believe how “ridiculous” Sherlock was being. 

“There’s a good restaurant a couple of streets from here,” John continued. “They serve you quickly. We’re going.”

“Oh, alright. I already intended on eating dinner with you. It’s not like you have to force me.”

“Good. Do I have to call you at lunchtime tomorrow to make sure you’re eating then, too?”

“Oh for—I don’t need to be mollycoddled.”

“Well, tough luck. I’m a doctor. It’s my job.”

The argument lasted all the way through the car park and into the car, where John finally quit being so annoying when Sherlock promised to eat a full, balanced meal for lunch tomorrow. God, it was like being nagged by Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock knew how much food he needed. He wasn’t about to collapse in a starved stupor. To please John’s over-protective sensibilities, Sherlock ordered a plate of grilled chicken and risotto with a side salad. There. All the important food groups were covered. John narrowed his eyes in exasperation when Sherlock pointed this out, but ignored him and gave his own order to the waiter. The restaurant was medium-sized and only half full. Family-oriented, but thankfully lacking the loud music that some of those places went in for. They sat at a booth beside a window overlooking the street with a small, yellow lamp hanging overhead, the light dim, yet bright enough to see. 

“You considered ordering an appetizer,” Sherlock said when the waiter left, turning back to John.

John at least had the decency to look a tad chagrined by this.

“I did. I’m not mollycoddling you, but you do need to eat.”

“The risotto will be plenty.”

“But an appetizer would be faster.” John frowned, concern entering his eyes. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t actually order it.”

Sherlock’s stomach had begun protesting painfully since John had first broached the subject.

“I’m hungry,” Sherlock said. “I don’t have an appetite problem. I’m just good at ignoring it.”

John sighed, slouching back in his seat as he shook his head, glancing out the window.

“You shouldn’t, but I’ll shut up now. I just want you to be okay, that’s all.”

Sherlock’s annoyance retreated. He shifted in his seat, also looking out the window at the passing cars.

“I understand,” he said, voice softer.

A few, silent moments passed, then his phone chimed with a text. He grabbed it from his pocket. Lestrade was messaging him.

_Double murder. Locked room. I know your ankle is still messed up, but can you come take a look?_

Sherlock frowned. Gregson must have told him about his injuries, the busybody. 

“Is it Mycroft?” John asked.

“No. It’s Lestrade, the DI who referred me to the case I was working here. He’s texting me about a new case.”

“Oh.” John looked down at the table, voice soft and crestfallen. “So you have to go back to London, then?”

He steadied his tone more that second time and raised his head, straightening in his seat, but there was no disguising how upset he was at the possibility of Sherlock suddenly leaving. Sherlock frowned, surprised by his own distress at the thought of having to do so. They had only known each other for a few days, and yet John was his friend. Sherlock didn’t go around idly referring to people as such, even the rare ones who tolerated his continued presence. As much as he had bristled at Mycroft’s nannying him over John’s status in his life, the annoying git had been right about this. John mattered to him. He was important. Sherlock couldn’t define how exactly, but he couldn’t just up and leave John here in Dover without dire consequences to himself. Mycroft had been right about that, too. It had been too many years since Victor, whom he had also latched onto rather quickly, but it was so rare for a living person to intrigue him past deducing them in a few seconds. For that person to wish to be near him in return was practically unheard of. How could he not be compelled to hold on as strongly as he could?

“I don’t have to go anywhere,” Sherlock said. “Not yet. Besides, I like to be fully mobile when working.”

 _I’m out of town_ , he texted Lestrade.

“But you will have to go back eventually,” John said. “You were only supposed to be here for the case.”

 _Still?_ Lestrade replied.

 _I’m on holiday_ , Sherlock replied. _Am I not allowed to go on holiday?_

“Eventually, yes,” Sherlock said. “But I can stay here a bit longer.”

 _Sure_ , Lestrade replied. _I’ve just never known you to take a holiday._

_Now you’ve seen it. I’ll text you when I get back._

Sherlock put the phone away. Lestrade knew better than to try to continue the conversation past that point. 

“How much longer do you plan on staying?” John asked. 

“I’m not sure. I’m playing it by ear. I need to heal, and there’s no sense in leaving before an interesting case comes along. It’s far more interesting here at the moment.”

“Right. I guess, uh… the novelty hasn’t worn off yet.”

Sherlock frowned as he played his own words back in his head.

“That’s not what I meant.”

John raised a conciliatory hand.

“I know.”

“I’m not just here because of what you are.”

“I know, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have—”

“I like you.”

John stared at him. Sherlock clenched his teeth, swallowing a groan of frustration.

“Not like that. Why must everyone always take things the wrong way? As a friend. I like you as a friend. We are friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes, of course.” John smiled. “None of what we did yesterday would have happened if we weren’t friends.”

“Okay. Right. Obviously.” Why the hell did he have to get flustered now? “I just wanted to be sure, just in case. You didn’t exactly choose to be my friend. You were stuck with me after the beach.”

“I suppose. You also didn’t really choose me. I stuck you with me.” John frowned at the awkwardness of his phrasing. “I think that’s why I said what I did earlier. Look, I’ve never shown a human what I am. I broke a pretty big rule, actually. I’m doing a lot of processing myself, to be honest. And yesterday was weird. But you had my back. I would never hesitate to call you my friend after that.”

Sherlock examined his face, warming at the genuine expression on his face. 

“Well,” he said, smiling. “That is a relief.”

“A relief?”

“Most people tell me to sod off within five minutes of knowing me.” 

John’s eyes widened in offence on his behalf.

“I’m not looking for sympathy,” Sherlock continued. “I’m just stating a fact. People don’t tend to enjoy my company. Apparently, I’m difficult.”

John’s lips jerked with a grin.

“I have noticed that, yes. So you don’t have other friends?”

“Lestrade might count, but I’m not going out to eat with him. I don’t know how you’d categorize Mrs. Hudson, my landlady. According to Mycroft, she’s a mother figure, which I can’t disagree with. I do feel that sort of affection towards her. Don’t tell Mycroft I agree with him. He’d be even more insufferable.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“So, no friends, no.”

John shrugged.

“That’s fine. I don’t have friends, either. I have acquaintances. So we’re both in a category of one. That feels like a lot of pressure.”

“You should have thought of that before you flashed me on the beach.”

John chuckled. He sucked his bottom lip, nodding.

“That was rather forward of me, wasn’t it? I apologize for the nudity, but I can’t say that I regret it.”

A thrill of excitement ran through Sherlock as he grinned.

“Neither do I.”

```````````````````````

“You know,” John said later when they were halfway through dinner. “You can stay at my place if you want. You don’t have to keep paying the hotel.”

Sherlock peered closely at him, his chews slowing on his risotto.

“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be too much of an imposition to have me around all of the time?”

“You’re already around most of the time, so it wouldn’t be much difference. You can take my bed. You’re too tall for the sofa.”

Sherlock frowned.

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed.” 

“It’s not a problem. I sleep in seal form half the time, anyway, and I can do that on the floor. It’s more comfortable than it sounds. Much more than napping on rocky shoals, which I’m used to.”

Fair point. Sherlock would love to remain in John’s home rather than have to return to his dull hotel every night with its generic artwork and dull, single colored walls and uncomfortable chair. The thought of staying in his bed sent a thrill of warmth and discovery through him that he wasn’t sure how to interpret, but was too excited by the prospect to care. Due to his ankle, he had yet to see the upstairs of the house, much less John’s bedroom. What new data would he glean there? Favorite books? More clues on John’s selkie nature? Not that Sherlock would go sniffing around without John’s permission, but superficial details gave him plenty to continue studying this fascinating man. His friend. 

Sherlock suppressed a grin, his left foot jiggling with excitement under the table. 

“I warn you,” Sherlock said. “I sleep at odd hours, play the violin when I’m thinking, and I’m prone to _moods_ , as Mycroft calls them.”

John quirked a brow.

“Moods? Would these be those epic sulks that he mentioned?”

Sherlock scowled at that.

“Sorry,” John said, smiling in apology. “Look, I don’t mind. I don’t have the sunniest disposition myself at times. And you’re not moving in. You’re just staying for a while. We don’t need to vet each other. Although the violin bit is a plus. I would love to hear you play again.”

John’s smile turned hopeful and his voice softened as he tried, and failed, to disguise how much it would please him to hear Sherlock’s violin. Sherlock smiled back.

“I can oblige you on that,” he said. “Not the piece you heard earlier, though. It’s not finished.”

“Okay, not that one. So it’s settled, then?”

Sherlock nodded, digging into the last of his chicken with extra gusto.


	6. Chapter 6

Due to John working the next day, they delayed Sherlock’s move until the day after that, which was Saturday. John picked him up at 9:30, this time going up to his room to help him with his luggage. His eyes lit up with excitement upon seeing Sherlock’s violin case in his hand.

“I’ll play when we get to your house,” Sherlock said, his smirk widening as John smiled, nearly buzzing with anticipation.

“I’d love that,” he said, quickening his motions as he grabbed Sherlock’s laptop bag and suitcase. 

Ordinarily, Sherlock preferred to get acquainted with his sleeping quarters before doing anything else, but as soon as they arrived at the house, he sat at the desk and prepared his bow and violin for playing. Once he was ready, he instructed John to position the chair in the center of the room to give himself space and sat down, placing his violin on his shoulder. He began with a Mozart piece, fingers gliding easily over the familiar notes. He usually kept his eyes closed to absorb the sounds with the least distraction, but now he opened them every so often to glance at John, who sat on the sofa in front of him, leaning forward, elbows on his thighs, gazing at him with utter fascination, a small, pleased smile on his lips. Sherlock had to stamp down his own smile else he become too obvious. He rarely had an audience other than Mrs. Hudson. Once, Lestrade had shown up in the middle of Sherlock composing, and Sherlock had delayed the thrill of a new case for a minute as he ironed out a few more notes before they fled this mind and left him groaning in frustration. He had surfaced to find Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson regarding him with admiration, Mrs. Hudson’s gaze filled with the usual pride. Sherlock wasn’t immune to such praise. Much the opposite, not that he would admit it in words, although it was obvious enough in the pleased smiles and light blushes he never managed to hide in time. 

With John, he didn’t even try, for what would be the point? As soon as Sherlock lowered his bow, John broke into happy applause.

“That was beautiful,” he said, smiling even more now. “Thank you.”

Sherlock dipped his head in a small bow.

“You’re welcome. Shall I play one of my compositions now?”

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock considered for a moment, then raised his bow again. This piece was a bit melancholic for the present mood, but it was Sherlock’s best composition. Why not start with the best? He wanted to impress, after all. This time, his eyes remained closed throughout. Even stealing a peek at John’s reactions would disturb the flow of his playing to his utmost ability, and that would not do. He sank into the waves of the music, swaying as he glided the bow over the strings, dispelling the beating of the clock on the wall and the fridge in the kitchen, attuned only to the rhythm flowing through him and the feel of John’s gaze upon him, his silent, bated breath, his eager enjoyment of every sound that Sherlock coaxed from the instrument in his hands. 

As the notes carried to a close, Sherlock lowered his violin to his lap and bowed low, cheeks flushed from playing and the thrill of John’s applause. 

“That was amazing,” John said. 

“Thank you.”

Sherlock was startled by the thick softness in his voice. He straightened, swallowing, barely daring to meet John’s fascinated eyes. 

“I composed this one some years ago,” Sherlock said, flattening his tone a bit else he betray himself. “I consider it my best piece, so you’ll have to adjust your expectations for the rest accordingly.”

“I find it highly doubtful that I won’t like them. I like the one you played at the cliffs. You’re judging yourself too harshly for that one. You should finish it.”

Sherlock wasn’t fully convinced about that one or John’s judgment of it, but he could keep working at it, he supposed.

“We’ll see,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s going to have to wait. I began a new one last night while watching Blue Planet on mute.”

John quirked a brow at that, intrigued. 

“Did you? Which part?”

“I can’t tell you yet. It’s a surprise. I can’t promise when it will be finished. I did a large chunk last night, but it’s nowhere near ready.”

“Ok. Sure. There’s no rush. I’m looking forward to it.”

Sherlock returned John’s smile.

_As am I._

````````````````

John showed Sherlock upstairs. It wasn’t the easiest proposition with Sherlock’s ankle, but he was strong enough that he could stand firmly upon it without too much pain. As long as he climbed only with his left foot and descended only with his right, he should be fine. John insisted on helping him regardless. Normally, Sherlock would have been peeved by this, but he found himself unable to resist the soft pressure of John’s steading hand on his upper arm, so he wasn’t about to discourage him by pointing out that he could manage on his own. The upper floor consisted of two bedrooms, one of which John used as his study. They were sparsely furnished, containing only the essentials. A desk, chair, and file cabinets for the study, and a bed and side tables for the bedrooms. The rest of the space was taken up with books. It seemed that Sherlock had been wrong about the downstairs shelves containing his full collection, although there were no more books on music to be found upstairs, so that portion of his deduction had been correct, at least. Like the rest of the house, framed artwork decorated the walls, along with a print of a 16th century map of the world. Its blue inked oceans were festooned with fanciful drawings of fierce monsters and merpeople.

“I wouldn’t think you’d like this sort of thing,” Sherlock said, peering at it.

“The depictions are a little insulting at times,” John said, standing next to him. “But they’re not all terrible. Kelpies really can look like this.”

John pointed at an image on the upper left corner, a long necked beast that bore a close resemblance to the most famous image of the Loch Ness monster. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the reminder that he could no longer make fun of fools who believed such a preposterous tale to be real, for it was.

“Besides,” John continued, “It shows that there was a time when most humans believed that my kind existed.”

Sherlock could see how that might be comforting.

“I see your point.”

“Speaking of the sea, I want to go on a swim today. You can’t get in the water yet, but do you want to join me on the beach? Unless it’s too cold for you, although it’s warmed up today. I’m going to be swimming for a while, so it might get boring for you, now that I think about it.”

“Your tactics of persuasion leave much to be desired. I’m half tempted now to decline your offer since you make it sound so unappealing.”

John snorted softly.

“That wasn’t my intention. I just… Never mind. Do you want to go? See the outside world for a bit?”

“That’s better. Yes, I’ll join you. I’ll bring a book to occupy myself during these boring stretches you warn me of.”

`````````````````

The descent to the beach was a bit tricky due to Sherlock’s ankle, but John stayed close by his side, ready to catch him if he stumbled on the pebbles. John carried a canvas folding chair for Sherlock to sit on and a backpack filled with his seal skin, Sherlock’s book, a towel, and a woolen blanket in case Sherlock got cold.. A breeze blew across the water, but it wasn’t so chilly as to be uncomfortable. Fluffy clouds dotted a blue sky, the bright sun helping warm the ground below.

Either way, Sherlock was well bundled in his coat and scarf. Sherlock settled himself on the chair far enough from the water to not have to worry about getting wet while John exchanged his clothes for the his seal skin. Neither of them blinked anymore at John stripping in front of him. Nudity didn’t mean anything in John’s culture, as he’d explained, and Sherlock never minded as long as no one ogled him naked. He still smiled while watching John transform, though. How had he ever denied such a wondrous sight as this? With a glance back and a wave of his flipper, John jogged to the shoreline and slid into the water, aerodynamic body gliding comfortably through the waves. He poked his head out to look at Sherlock, who smiled, waving at him. John bobbed up and down for a bit, then swam further off and began to jump out of the water in graceful arches like in those dolphin shows that Sherlock’s parents had dragged him and Mycroft to when they were children. 

Sherlock chuckled. Did John always behave like this or was he showing off for Sherlock’s benefit? Likely the latter. John kept jumping in longer and longer lunges until he tired himself out. He swam closer to shore and poked his head out. With a ululating grunt and wave, he sank back in the water. His body gleamed close to the surface for a few seconds, then he disappeared off to deeper waters. With a wistful sign, Sherlock grabbed his book, an exploration of deep sea life, and began to read. He didn’t last more than a minute before putting the book aside and grabbed his composing notebook from his coat pocket, picking up where he’d left off. Fresh melodies fluttered in his mind, too quick to write all at once, propelled by the impression of John cavorting in the water and the regular rhythm of the waves brushing cold water along the shiny pebbles. He composed in fits and starts, a long flow of inspiration halted by sudden uncertainty and scratching out of notes on the page. His hand ached from gripping his pencil too tightly by the time he’d tapped himself out. He wasn’t finished with the composition by any means, but it was shaping up very nicely indeed. He hoped that John liked it when it was done. 

He resumed his reading, skipping ahead to the parts covering seals and the animals that they ate and encountered. His breath shuddered as he saw a picture of a killer whale, which ate seals. He frowned at the horizon, scrutinizing the water, imagining a killer whale or a great white shark breaking through the surface with a selkie caught in its jaws. 

He was being stupid. There were no great white sharks anywhere near here and the few killer whales lived off the coast of Scotland. As far as more unorthodox beings were concerned (John disliked the terms “fantastical” and “supernatural”), John said that there wasn’t anything dangerous in these waters. John knew where it was safe to swim. He had been fine for years before Sherlock had shown up, so there was no use fussing about it. 

Speaking of fussing, Sherlock’s ridiculous worrying was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson calling. She had been in contact every day since Sherlock had informed her that he was injured and would tarry getting back to London, as if her constant hovering might prompt him into returning sooner. Lestrade snitching that he had almost been murdered only made her nagging worse. Sometimes she called, which he ignored, then she texted, asking how he was doing, if he wasn’t working his ankle too hard, drinking enough water, all the usual Mrs. Hudson stuff that he complained about to her face but secretly appreciated, not that he would ever admit that to her. If he did, it would only get worse and he’d never get her out of his flat. 

He took the call this time. He had ignored them long enough, and she had knocked him out of his rubbish thoughts.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “My injuries are better. I’m eating and drinking enough water. No, I still don’t know when I’m getting back. How are you on this fine day?”

He could picture her huffing in exasperation at his difficult manner, but with a fond smile at the edge of her lips. After all, he wasn’t being an unholy terror, as one of several nannies had called him. This was practically charming coming from him. Besides, she was used to him.

“I’m alright,” she said, amusement in her tone, yet there was a hint of chiding when she added, “Thank you for asking. Although you still need to work on how you answer the phone.”

“I know how to answer the phone. I just don’t see the point. We both know that’s what you were going to ask about, so we might as well get it out of the way now.”

She sighed, but didn’t bother arguing.

“Are you at the beach?” she asked.

Sherlock frowned, then smiled. It was a simple enough deduction.

“You can hear the wind and the waves, can’t you?”

“Yes. Why would you want to stay in a beach town unless you wanted to go to the beach? And you sound like you’re in a good mood.”

“It was the cliffs I was originally interested in, but the beach is rather invigorating, as well.”

“Invigorating? You’re not walking your ankle too much yet, are you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’m not. I’m sitting in a canvas chair by the shore. I’m not even moving my ankle. This isn’t the first sprain I’ve had, you know.”

“I know, but you do tend to push yourself too hard.”

Sherlock dropped his head back, which annoyed him further, as the backrest was so low that it only reached up to his shoulders. 

“You have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Hudson. I’m following my doctor’s advice to the letter.”

“That’s unusual of you.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

“Is it the fellow who found you after you were attacked?”

Sherlock hesitated for a second, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Yes. He’s become a friend.”

“A friend? Oh, how wonderful. I’ve never seen you have a friend other than Inspector Lestrade. But you don’t even call him by his first name.”

Why was everyone so fixated on Sherlock not knowing Lestrade’s first name? What did it matter? Alright, fine. So perhaps it might be a tad uneven that Lestrade called Sherlock by his first name while Sherlock didn’t, but Lestrade wasn’t complaining, so what business was it of anyone else’s? 

“I know Lestrade’s first name,” Sherlock said, testy.

“I never said you didn’t.”

Yet Mrs. Hudson’s tone implied precisely that.

“I don’t need to say it to prove that I know it.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

Her patient, conciliatory tone riled Sherlock up even further. What the devil was Lestrade’s name, anyway? It started with a “G”. He was sure of it. What names had he tried with Mycroft? Gavin? Geoffrey? 

“It’s Gabriel,” he said.

Mrs. Hudson’s long suffering silence said it all.

“Never mind,” Sherlock said, growling, good mood completely evaporated. “Don’t tell me. I’ll figure it out. Anyway, the doctor’s name is John. I know his name. I call him by that name. And he’s coming over. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to leave you now. So sorry. There’s no need to keep asking me when I’m coming home. I’ll let you know.”

“I didn’t ask, dear, but I would appreciate it. Have fun with your friend.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“Thanks. Bye now.”

He hung up and pulled up the newspaper articles of his last case. Lestrade’s name had been mentioned in them.

Aha! Gregory. He knew it started with a “g”. Sherlock made a special note of it in his mind palace. Lestrade’s name had never been important enough to remember, but it wasn’t worth people constantly rubbing it in his face. Shoving the matter out of his mind, he returned to his book.

Another half hour passed before John emerged from the water. Sherlock looked up at the sound of flippers scuttling on the pebbles, the adorable sight of John hopping along making him smile. It was a pity that John couldn’t spend more time in this form. He was truly a sight for sore eyes. Not that his human form was bad to look at. Not at all. 

“Did you have a nice swim?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded, his vocalization cheerful. He lied down at Sherlock’s right side, shutting his eyes for a kip. Sherlock watched him, his hand straying past the armrest, but he stopped short of touching John. He’d taken the liberty without asking last time. John hadn’t complained, but still. 

“May I pet you?” Sherlock asked. 

John grunted, rolling onto his side and tugging Sherlock’s hand down. Sherlock obliged him by brushing his fingers up John’s head in small circles and down his back. John had liked that earlier. John rumbled contentedly, almost like a cat purr. Grinning, Sherlock turned back to his book, but he didn’t pay it as close attention as before, not with the distraction of John’s fur stroking his fingertips as he massaged him. 

When the sun began to dim in the horizon, John shifted to human form and got dressed. They returned to his house, where John began to cook dinner. Sherlock sat on the sofa at first, trying to continue his book, but the words kept slipping past his sight as his thoughts returned to the act of touching John so freely and how John interpreted that. Sherlock had only touched him that way when John was in seal form, so John couldn’t think that Sherlock was coming on to him, surely. Yet the doubt nagged at him.

“I want to clarify something,” Sherlock said, limping into the kitchen. 

John paused chopping tomatoes for a second as he glanced at Sherlock over his shoulder.

“That sounds serious,” he said. “Should I be worried?”

“No, it’s not like that.” Sherlock stood by the counter next to him. “I just want to make sure that there’s no misunderstandings. You say you don’t mind me petting you, but I don’t want you to think that I’m treating you as if you were a dog.”

Or worse, that John thought Sherlock fancied him. 

“You mean you don’t find me cute?”

John flashed him a cheeky grin. Sherlock groaned internally as heat crept up the back of his neck.

“Seals in general are cute, so yes, I do find your seal form cute. That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. I’m not afraid you’re dehumanizing me or anything. I’m not human to begin with. I really don’t mind the touches. I like them, actually, which you’ve probably noticed. We’re friends. Your culture isn’t very touchy-feely, as they say, but mine is. Petting. Cuddling. They’re standard displays of affection between friends and family, not just romantic gestures.”

That was a relief. It made sense. Social animals were generally physically affectionate with all of those who they shared bonds with. Certain annoying human cultures were the exception. 

“I’m glad to hear that your people are so reasonable about that. I wish mine were, though it’s too much to ask that they be reasonable about much of anything.”

John turned to him with surprise. 

“Really? I’ve never met an Englishman who thinks so.”

“Well, you’ve never met an Englishman like me, have you?”

John laughed. Sherlock gazed at the prettiness of his smile in fascination.

“No, I can’t say I have. I’ve never met anyone like you. Which is good. I’m glad that you are reasonable about this.”

“Of course I am. People’s insistence on shoving behaviors into strict categories is narrow-minded and exhausting.”

“So are you into that kind of touching with your friends? I mean, theoretically, since I’m your only friend right now.”

Sherlock peered carefully at John, studying the expression on his face.

“Are you suggesting that you want to cuddle with me?” he asked.

John dropped a piece of tomato as he transferred them to a bowl. His eyes widened, mouth falling open as he looked at Sherlock, flustered. Embarrassment burned through Sherlock, heating his cheeks. He had pushed too fast, been too presumptuous. Had John not admitted to being attracted to him only a week before? Doubtlessly, he was still managing his disappointment at Sherlock’s rejection and such close intimacy would make it harder to banish it, petting in seal form aside. 

“Forget I asked that,” Sherlock said. “I was only teasing.”

He took a step back, leaning hard on his crutch, meeting John’s eyes with a smile to let him know that he had meant nothing serious by it. 

“No, it’s fine,” John said quickly. “You surprised me, that’s all. I probably shouldn’t have been since you’ve been petting me since the second day, but we haven’t touched much with me in this form. Other than me treating you and helping you, that is. Would you like to?”

Sherlock looked down at the counter.

“I hadn’t really thought about it. What I said, it really just came out without thinking.”

“Okay.”

Hang on. Did John sound disappointed?

“I did want to before, with another friend. But we never did. I never dared ask. He would have taken it the wrong way, most likely. Like you said, Englishmen aren’t into this form of intimacy without some other motive attached.”

Sherlock’s knuckles hurt as he gripped the counter. The words had rushed out of him, too fast and unsteady. He’d never admitted to this before. Not even Mycroft had deduced it. and he certainly hadn’t intended to say it now, to a man he had only known for a week, yet John had shared so much of himself with him in that week, had laid himself so bare, so why should Sherlock fear to do the same? He trusted John, was sure that he wouldn’t mock him or dismiss him, a rarity in this world. If John found him ridiculous, he would have revealed his disdain long ago, and would certainly not have let Sherlock’s brother see him without need. Or invited him to stay in his house or pet him until he purred. 

“Who was this friend?”

John’s question was so soft, so careful, as if he might spook Sherlock by speaking too loudly. 

“A classmate at uni. Victor. He moved to Canada to be with his boyfriend. We lost touch long ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

_Why should you be sorry? You didn’t shove him onto the plane._

But Sherlock bit his tongue. John wasn’t apologizing. It had taken Sherlock so long to understand that people used this phrase to mean “I’m sad to hear that”, even though they weren’t actually sad half of the time that they used it. But John did look sad. It wasn’t pity or a fake show of sympathy. The sorrow shadowing John’s face wasn’t only for Sherlock losing his friend, but for himself, for the past that he held back from Sherlock as if it might burn him to show it too close to the surface. What had happened to him? Why wasn’t he with his kind anymore?

“I lost touch with all my old friends, too,” John said, as if divining Sherlock’s mind.

He turned his back to the counter and leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest as if to brace himself against the tide itching behind his eyes. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Sherlock said.

“No, I want to now. I do.” John pressed his lips together in a strained grimace as he sucked in a deep breath, gaining strength from it. “I didn’t really lose touch with them. My people, we have a clan structure. It’s not terribly rigid. You can switch clans pretty easily if you want and it’s rare to be banished from one, but it still happens. It happened to me. If I had decided to live on land for only a year or two, they would have let me be. But med school? Wanting a career as a doctor? A human doctor?” 

John shook his head, shoulders tensing further. 

“My culture respects individualism, but you still have obligations to your community. To your family. You’re expected to be an active member of society. How could I while spending most of my time on land? The best I would be able to manage was to visit, and not often. Not even that while I was studying. I had no time at all, and I knew I wouldn’t. I lied and said that I would, but they did the research for themselves. I shouldn’t have lied. It just made things worse. Now not only was I leaving, but I was accused of deceiving them, which was true. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t being malicious about it. By this point, the matter had escalated to a hearing with the ruling council. You need to be granted permission to absent yourself for as long as I wanted. You can’t just declare that you’re leaving and go. They told me that I had to decide. I could live on land for up to three years if I wanted and remain part of the clan. That was a generous extension on their part. Originally, they had said only two years. But if I stayed for longer, I couldn’t be in the clan anymore. How could I be a part of it if I wasn’t present?”

John paused. He stared sorrowfully at the floor, his hands drawn into tight fists at his elbows.

“I lied again,” John said, voice heavy with self-recrimination. “You know, it’s not like I could be one hundred percent sure that I would like living here in the long term. I might hate med school. Decide to quit. Then where would I be? Dragging myself back to the clan, begging them to take me back after choosing to sunder myself from them? If I had left because I was getting married to someone in another clan, it would be easy to come back, but turning my back to them for the human world? That was unacceptable. I would have the right to visit those who would see me, and no one would get in trouble for visiting me, but they probably wouldn’t take me back as a member again. Maybe after years of making the proper gestures and apologies, but there would be no guarantee. And what other clan would take me in? So I took the deal. No more than three years on land. Obviously, I broke it. So they banished me. No one of my old clan is allowed to speak to me. The rest shun me except for a very few rebellious types every once in a long while. I’ll never be welcome among selkies again.”

John’s left hand was shaking. His eyes shone, blinking too rapidly not to be holding back tears, his lips pressed in a firm, weary line as he hunched forward. He hadn’t glanced at Sherlock once as he spoke, as if he couldn’t face him through the depths of his shame. Sherlock gaped uselessly at him. He never knew what to do in these situations. Should he remain silent like when John had been shaken by the sharks in the documentary? Or should he touch his shoulder in comfort like in the car? He should do something. Standing here mute felt wrong. Cruel. He would have comforted Victor in this situation, and John had just said that he liked touching his friends.

“I’m very sorry,” Sherlock said.

John nodded, sucking at his bottom lip. He didn’t look up. Sherlock reached out, touching John’s shoulder. John leaned into his hand, turning his head towards it, seeking him out. Sherlock took a step forward.

“May I hug you?” he asked.

John’s sigh hissed like a gasp as he finally looked up at Sherlock. He nodded, murmuring, “Yeah.” Sherlock rested his crutch against the counter behind him and pulled John close. John wrapped himself around him with a halting breath, tentative at first, but as soon as Sherlock began to rub his back, he clutched Sherlock like a lifeline in a drowning ocean, burying his face in his shoulder. His breath hitched, gasping, and moisture soaked through Sherlock’s shirt to his skin. Sherlock frowned at the unpleasant sensation of wet, but he didn’t mind like he thought he would. He didn’t want to let go, to let John face this sorrow alone. One hand strayed up John’s hair, stroking his scalp in those soothing, circular motions that he’d relished before when all had been calm and happy at the beach. A beach that John had only been able to enjoy alone for twelve years before he had let Sherlock in on his secret in an act of agonizing desperation. 

“You’re not alone anymore,” Sherlock said. “I may not be a selkie or be able to offer you a place in a clan, but I am your friend. I’m here.”

John gasped around a sob.

“We are friends and I really appreciate that. But we’ve only known each other a week. You don’t have to promise me anything.”

“I’m not one of those fair-weather friends, John. I don’t use the word lightly. Neither do you, unless my perception is mistaken.”

John leaned back and wiped his tears with his right hand, but kept his left firmly on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“It’s not,” he said. “We’ve shared more in this week than I have with some former friends in the span of years, actually. I just don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“Don’t be silly, John. As your friend, I am obligated. I warn you, though, I often don’t say the right thing, don’t know how to handle others’ needs, and I’m told that I’m incredibly selfish. I may give off the appearance that I don’t care, but I do. I do try, though I often fail.”

John frowned at him in wonderment.

“You’ve been doing a pretty good job so far. And you already warned me about your moods.”

“They are coming. I hope you won’t be put off by them. But if you are, that’s alright.”

“No, it’s not. As your friend, I’m also obligated. Selkies don’t abandon their friends so easily. I know I gave that impression after what I just told you, but I’ll never be so callous with people’s expectations of me again.” John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulders. “I want to share a selkie gesture of friendship with you, if you don’t mind. Only true friends engage in it, never acquaintances.”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, excitement fluttering in his chest.

“I would be honored.”

John smiled. 

“I’ve never done this in human form before. It’s going to sound silly. We close our eyes and rub our noses and cheeks together.”

A grin jerked on Sherlock’s lips. That did sound silly, but also strangely appealing.

“I think I can manage that,” he said.

He closed his eyes and leaned down. John was a quite a bit shorter than him, so John had to tug him down a bit further before their faces connected in feather light touches. Sherlock followed John’s lead, feeling rather like a cat marking its territory with its scent glands. Was this what this gesture was meant to convey? To show everyone that they were friends, so woe betide anyone who dared come between them? Warmth pooled in Sherlock’s belly. His ankle ached, but he hadn’t felt this good in years, not even in the midst of elation at solving a difficult case. 

John pulled back. Sherlock opened his eyes, meeting John’s uncertain ones.

“How was that?” John asked.

“Unusual, but surprisingly fun.”

He grinned. John met it readily with a grin of his own that brightened his whole face. His pretty, kind, captivating face.

“Glad to hear that. Now get yourself off that ankle while I finish dinner.”

“As you wish, doctor.”

Sherlock smiled all the way to the sofa.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock awoke far too early for his liking. The clock read 7:06 in the morning light streaming in through the shut, blue curtains. A sunny day would be welcome at a later hour, but not this one, not when John and he had rolled into bed past midnight arguing over an ill-conceived game of Cluedo. Whoever had created that ill written form of “entertainment” had clearly not an ounce of knowledge of deduction or of a killer’s motivations. 

“It’s a game, Sherlock,” John had protested, interrupting Sherlock’s rant about the game’s numerous deficiencies. “It’s supposed to be light and fun, not an accurate depiction of crime solving.”

“If it’s not going to be accurate, what’s the point?”

They had agreed to never play Cluedo again. 

Sherlock turned over, careful not to jostle his ankle, and shut his eyes again for more sleep, but his body failed to cooperate. In the quiet, he heard John snoring in his study. They had both left their doors slightly ajar in case Sherlock needed something in the middle of the night and wanted to call John, as if he couldn’t get around on his own. But John insisted and it was his house, so Sherlock gave in. He lied on his back, the sun lighting bright red behind his closed eyelids, listening to the soft rhythm of John’s breath. Seal snores weren’t that different from human snores, it turned out. It was faint to Sherlock’s hearing, so it would be loud were John lying next to him, yet not unbearably so. Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to suffering much snoring around him, and, like most, didn’t find it particularly pleasant, yet John’s soothed him. The living presence of someone else in the same house as him was comforting. Sure, Mrs. Hudson was just downstairs at Baker Street, and the building had all been one house back upon a time, yet this felt different somehow. The proximity, perhaps. Or the friendship that they had professed in such a silly, yet delightful fashion yesterday. Or the excitement that still thrummed through Sherlock at having a friend at all, unsought, yet most welcome. Mycroft was right. He did do better with a friend. Not that Sherlock would admit that to him. 

Buoyed by the cadence of John’s breath, Sherlock let his mind drift in the hope of sleep. When he next opened his eyes, a dream of chasing a murderer through an aquarium faded from his memory. Huh. He had managed to sleep more, after all. John snored away. Smiling, Sherlock grabbed his mobile from the side table and checked his messages. Mrs. Hudson had sent him a picture of a puppy done up as a pop culture character Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to know about. Why people enjoyed dressing up their pets was beyond him, but the beagle did look adorable in his blue cape, so Sherlock replied with a smiling emoji. 

Mycroft’s text was much less gratifying. 

_How was your first sleep over?_

Sherlock scowled.

_This wasn’t a sleepover. I‘m not a child. And how did you know? You better not be spying on John._

Mycroft’s reply wasn’t long in coming. 

_Of course not. John told me._

He did? Sherlock had known that Mycroft had kept asking John questions, but not that they were communicating about him.

 _No, I didn’t ask John to spy on you_ , Mycroft texted. _We talk._

_Why?_

_Sometimes my enquiries lead to tangents. Don’t worry, he hasn’t revealed anything untoward._

_Of course not. He wouldn’t do that._

_He might be starting to think of me as a friend._

Sherlock wasn’t sure how he felt about sharing a friend with Mycroft, even if it was true, but surely John would have mentioned it, wouldn’t he? Category of one, John had said. Besides, Mycroft considered any such sentiment beneath his notice. 

_You should be so lucky_ , Sherlock replied. 

John’s snores came to a sudden halt. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doorway. The ancient floorboards creaked. John was awake.

 _Gotta go_ , Sherlock texted and put down the phone.

Grabbing his crutch from where it leaned against the wall, Sherlock set his feet carefully on the floor and stood up. He winced, the stiff muscles in his right ankle yanking painfully, but that would lessen as they loosened up with motion. He walked forward, every step ginger and as quiet as he could make it, for John had not moved again. Perhaps he’d fallen back to sleep. Either way, Sherlock’s bladder had woken up and demanded that he attend to it. As he crept past the study, he took a peek inside. John lied flat on the floor, flippers out, eyes closed, snout even more doglike pressed against the floorboards. As adorable as ever. 

After leaving the loo, Sherlock took more than a peek. John remained in the same position, rumbling softly. He snorted, but didn’t wake, not until Sherlock was foolish enough to take a tiny step forward unto a creaky patch of floor. John opened his eyes, head rising in alarm. Sherlock kicked himself. He’d wanted to watch John sleep for a bit longer. John settled as soon as he saw Sherlock. He dropped his head again and rolled onto his side in a full body stretch before wiggling his skin off. His eyes were still closed as his human face emerged, sandy hair tousled, skin softened in sleep even though it had not been the one pressed against the floor. 

A flash of memory came to Sherlock of Victor sleeping on the sofa in their old flat. He had been too tired to shut off the telly and crawl into his own bed, so Sherlock had done it for him. Yet he had remained, spellbound, to watch him sleep. Victor’s hair had spilled across his forehead, just like John’s did now, clean and soft. Sherlock had been tempted to reach down and touch. Just for a second. Not long enough for Victor to notice, but he didn’t. He shouldn’t. Not without Victor being aware of it. Sherlock had no right to touch him like that in his slumber. 

Yet he never had the courage to ask Victor when he was awake, either. Always, he formulated the request in his mind, agonizing over the wording, hoping and despairing at once that Victor would find it strange that Sherlock wanted to feel his skin and hair, his warmth, but not want to go beyond that, not in the way that Victor liked, if he even wanted that from Sherlock. Yet Sherlock never got the impression that Victor wanted anything other than friendship from him. Perhaps he was too ignorant in these forms of attraction to perceive it, but he didn’t think that had been the case. Victor’s desire was always so palpable when he had a boyfriend, an intimate partner who was not Sherlock, who he preferred to spend his nights with, and, in the end, his days, too. 

One of these boyfriends took him away to Canada. He had been the one to get transferred to the Vancouver office, not Victor. But they didn’t want to separate. Would have even gotten married if it had been possible. They were now. Victor had sent him the wedding invitation, which Sherlock had been forced to decline due to a pressing case he could not abandon. 

Now, in the present, John blinked owlishly, pushing his seal skin down to his waist, and propped himself up to a seating position. He brushed his hair off his face and over his eyes, emitting soft groans of resentment at being awake.

“Sorry for waking you,” Sherlock said. 

He only partly meant it, for his lips were threatening to curl up at the sweet sight of a sleepy John. 

“It’s okay.” John’s voice was muddled with slumber. “If you’re awake, I should be too. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, but there’s no hurry. Take your time.”

John pushed himself to his feet and folded up his skin, placing it on the desk. Grabbing a change of clothes he had put there earlier, he stepped past Sherlock to the loo. 

“I’ll be out in a bit,” he said.

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, then turned his attention to the seal skin, sitting on the chair beside it. John had never told Sherlock where he hid it, and Sherlock wouldn’t dare ask something so private. Yet here it sat, out in the open, left within such easy reach. Sherlock could fondle it, cut it, steal it away, hold it for ransom before John even realized, but John knew that Sherlock would never do such a thing. He trusted Sherlock to not so much as touch it without his consent. Sherlock was often careless and intrusive with others’ things, but this skin wasn’t a mere thing. It was part of John’s self, the counterpart of the human skin that formed him now. John wouldn’t be able to feel Sherlock’s touch upon it now. He would never know, but Sherlock would, and it would burn him alive with shame. He had been wrong to grab John’s skin in the grip of his panic a week before. He had apologized since, and John had accepted it, and now he was leaving Sherlock alone with such an intimate part of himself. A glad smile warmed Sherlock’s face. 

He was still grinning when John returned, fully dressed in jeans and a faded Star Wars t-shirt. 

“What is it?” John asked, frowning in bemusement at Sherlock’s smile.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. 

John glanced between Sherlock and his skin, a shift in his expression and lifting of his lips suggesting that he guessed at the source of Sherlock’s merriment, but he didn’t mention it. 

“You ready to go down?” he asked instead. 

Sherlock nodded.

`````````````````````````

They returned to the beach that day, and the day after, which John took off as a sick day so that Sherlock wouldn’t spend all day alone in the house. Of course, he did for the rest of the week, but Sherlock was certainly not going to complain. They settled into a comfortable routine. They shared meals (except for when Sherlock slept in the weekday mornings). Watched the telly. Discussed Sherlock’s latest reading and questions. Sherlock walked John through the steps of his deductive process in past cases (which John was an avid listener of). Went out for short walks and longer drives when they got tired of being cooped up in the house. 

Mrs. Hudson continued to call or send pictures of cute animals every day. Her enquiries had expanded to include John. How was John? Was he having fun with John? Would John be visiting him in London? God, Sherlock should have never said a word about him. Mrs. Hudson was acting like a stereotypical mum when her child brought their first boyfriend home, which was a horribly erroneous comparison given the deficiencies of Sherlock’s actual mother. Mycroft was little better. There was no repeat of his sleepover joke, but he persisted in asking John questions about anything he could think of, including if a particular politician was some sort of magical being, because he was as slippery and impossible to manage as one. John didn’t know and Sherlock didn’t care, so he picked up his violin and played one of Beethoven’s sonatas, which delighted John so much that he put his phone on silent to not spoil the music with its beeping. 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you were doing,” John said afterwards, but he paid far less attention to Mycroft for the rest of the evening.

Sherlock had asked him straight out that first morning if he considered Mycroft a friend, warning him that Mycroft barely understood what the concept meant.

“We’re friendly,” John had said. “I trust him, obviously, at least with my safety. But I don’t know what I’d call him.”

“A pompous arse with no respect for other people’s privacy?”

John had snorted into his toast. 

“Well, not to his face. No, I think I actually like him though, even if he is totally full of himself. But, well…”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John’s awkward, lowered expression.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you thinking that I’m also full of myself?”

John grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Well, you did admit that you always assume you’re the smartest person in the room, which is hardly a humble thing to say.”

“My intellect is superior to most people’s. That’s a fact.”

“Yes, you’re a genius. Your mind operates at a level that fills me with awe.” John leaned forward, adopting a sly expression that Sherlock didn’t like one bit. “But do you know how to perform an emergency airway puncture?”

Sherlock scoffed, slouching back in his seat.

“You’re talking about knowledge, not intellectual ability. They’re not the same.”

“Do you know how to do it?”

Sherlock huffed out a sigh and tapped restlessly on the table.

“No.”

“Do you know the best strategies for hunting flounder?”

“Oh, come on. You know I don’t.”

John picked up his mug and sat back like he’d just solved the trickiest case of the decade before Sherlock could, sipping his tea with an infuriating smirk of satisfaction. Sherlock glared at him. 

“Alright then,” he said after a moment, his voice tight with begrudging defeat. “I’m not the most knowledgeable person in this room. But I’m still more intellectually gifted than you.”

John tilted his head.

“I can’t argue with that.”

“And if I were a selkie, I would be bloody brilliant at catching flounder.”

John chuckled. 

“I have no doubt.”

Sherlock grabbed a piece of toast and ate it so noisily that it precluded all conversation for the next minute. But he wasn’t really angry at John, who had the audacity to look amused by Sherlock’s display. Most people pushed back at him with inane arguments and wounded pride when Sherlock called them stupid to their faces, but not John. Not that he had called John stupid, just pointed out that his brain was much slower than his own, yet John had conceded that point and fought back with his own superior knowledge of subjects that Sherlock knew nothing about yet must recognize as being of immense value. Of course John was smart. Sherlock wouldn’t be friends with someone who wasn’t smart, fascinating mythical creature or not. He certainly wouldn’t be staying at his home, sleeping in his bed, sharing some of the most diverting conversation he’d had in years, and being gratified by John’s immense curiosity and willingness to engage with Sherlock. 

More than willingness. Joy. Happiness glimmered in John’s eyes as he listened to Sherlock explain the tortuously long tribulations of the carpet killer case from last year, which he’d almost been forced to give up on. It purred when Sherlock pet him in his seal form, leaning into his touch, coaxing deeper massages out of him. It emanated from him as they watched telly together, John laughing at Sherlock’s mockery of the insipid storylines and myriad inaccuracies of the genre series that John watched. 

Joy sparkled even more when Sherlock finally played his finished composition for him. Sherlock worked on it the whole day while John was at work, refining every note until it was the best that he could make it. The instant that John walked through the door, Sherlock told him to sit on the sofa. He had already set up his stool in the middle of the room and had his violin ready. John’s protestations of hunger vanished the second that he saw the instrument. 

“Is this…” he asked, eyes wide with excitement. “You finished your composition?”

Sherlock grinned in reply, lifting the violin to his shoulder. 

“I have. Do sit down.”

John rushed to the sofa. He sat with quiet expectation, hands rubbing softly on his lap as he leaned a little forward, the most attentive and intrigued audience that Sherlock could wish for. Raising his bow, Sherlock closed his eyes and began. He had made sure to memorize the tune to perfection, both to not have to bother looking at his sheets and for the visual aesthetics of the performance. If he weren’t injured, he’d be standing and making full use of his limbs to dance with the music as it rose and ebbed like the waves that had inspired it. As it was, he could only manage a gentle sway without tripping up his notes. He hoped that it conveyed the proper effect, nevertheless. He had never felt this insecure about a composition before, this uncertain that he had the right to even attempt to capture the experience of John’s world when he could only be allowed to glimpse a tiny piece of it in cinematic footage and the tales that John wove at his request. He wouldn’t dare to speak to John’s experience, only try to share his own curiosity and delight at the honor that John had bestowed on him. The glances he snuck at John gave him hope that his message was being received, for John looked as enchanted as that first day when Sherlock had played for him, awed and taken in by the artistry that Sherlock so seldom had the chance or wished to share with another. John’s happy smile sparked warm elation in Sherlock’s skin even more vibrant than the allure of the sounds washing through his body. If only he’d made the song longer so that he could delight in this for more than this brief moment. 

It was with an apprehensive, mournful heart that he vibrated the strings on the last note and lowered the instrument, bowing low to John’s familiar yet always welcome applause. When he raised his head, he nearly gasped at the tender and touched affection that John directed at him.

“That was amazing,” John said, filled with admiration. “Wow. I knew it was going to be great. All of your compositions I‘ve heard so far have been, but that was even better than I expected. Wow. Thank you.”

Heat colored Sherlock’s cheeks at John’s praise. He smiled.

“There’s no need to thank me, but you are very welcome. I’d hoped you’d like it.”

“Like it? I love it.”

“Did it sound right to you? I mean, for the theme. I tried to give the strongest impression I could of what I feel when I listen to your stories and how I view the ocean now through your eyes, but I have no idea if I managed it.”

“I think so. You’re the better judge of what you’re feeling, not me, but I’d say yes. It was beautiful. If that’s how you feel when you listen to me, I’m humbled.” John’s voice wavered around sudden emotion. He glanced away, his smile turning bittersweet, grief shinning in his moistening eyes. “It makes me a bit homesick, actually.”

Sherlock’s gut pinched.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

A fierce light flared in John’s eyes as he turned back to Sherlock.

“No, no, don’t apologize. Don’t you dare apologize for that. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I’m honored. Really. I…” 

He sucked in a breath, lowering his head, eyes shifting this way and that as if grasping at what he wanted to say. Sherlock gripped his violin and bow, unsure what to say or do. He had expected John to be happy, and he was, but he should have seen this coming, should have known that this would dredge up John’s grief at being banished from his home. And he prided himself on always being the smartest person in the room. God, he could be so stupid sometimes. 

“John, I—”

John jumped off the sofa and leaned down, taking Sherlock’s head in his hands and rubbing his nose and cheek against his. They had not done this since that first time. John’s touch was firmer than before, more hungry and desperate and filled with need. Sherlock shivered, fearing that John might kiss him even though he hadn’t tried to proposition Sherlock, unless Sherlock had missed a clue, which he might with his wretched inability to perceive such things sometimes. But John didn’t stray near his lips. 

“Sorry,” John said, ceasing to touch him full stop, the suddenness of his retreat leaving Sherlock cold. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Sherlock put his bow on his lap and grabbed John’s left arm before he could move any further away. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I like doing that. Just…”

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. He shouldn’t continue that thought. Shouldn’t have even begun it. John frowned at him, uncertain and shaky and a little scared. Sherlock’s whole body froze as he found himself captured by John’s inquiring eyes, shining with emotion and so very blue, the hue of the ocean deep that Sherlock had sought to convey in his song.

“Just what?” John asked. 

_Just that I don’t know if you’re still attracted to me, but you’re looking at me like you might be and I don’t know how to feel about that or if I can give you what you want._

“Nothing.” Sherlock shook his head and lowered his hand, smiling with half-hearted desperation. “Just, a little warning next time would be nice. But I like it. I get what you were trying to tell me. I’m the one who’s honored. Thank you.”

John peered at him closely, suspecting that Sherlock was hiding something. Sherlock could see it in his eyes, and he begged mentally for John to let it go, to not go there tonight. When John nodded, smiling as he turned to sit back on the sofa, Sherlock exhaled in glad relief.

“Is it too much to ask to hear it again?” John said, shy.

“Of course not.”

With a deep breath to smooth the trembling in his startled limbs, Sherlock raised his violin and bow and sank back into the waves of the song.


	8. Chapter 8

Dinner was unusually subdued. Not that they had a lack of conversation, for John wished to know what each portion of the song represented and exactly what had inspired Sherlock in its composition. Yet John’s embarrassment at his earlier outburst made him a tad more awkward and less open than usual, which was matched by Sherlock’s own flustered preoccupation. He decided to keep his worries to himself, only to recapitulate the next instant and yearn to ask John what was on his mind to settle this once and for all. But even if he spoke now, there might be no settling anything. John’s feelings, even Sherlock’s own, might change in the future. But they would have cleared the air for now. When had Sherlock ever been content to live in doubt? 

After dinner, John performed his daily inspection of Sherlock’s injuries, all of which were healing at the expected pace. His cuts had been scabbed over for ages and the swelling in his ankle had lowered significantly. His feet were almost back to being a match, so John sitting on the sofa with Sherlock’s foot in his lap to inspect it might be excessive by now, yet John kept doing it. And Sherlock kept letting him. Not simply letting him. Wanting it. John’s careful fingers probed gently as he remarked cheerfully on Sherlock’s good progress. The words came to Sherlock’s tongue, sudden and unbidden, yet necessary.

“I’m aromantic asexual.”

John turned to him, startled.

“Oh,” he said, frowning in confusion at Sherlock’s sudden revelation, doubtlessly feeling wrong-footed by it. “Okay. Thanks for telling me. I mean, I’m glad that you feel comfortable enough with me to tell me that. I’m bi, so I’m queer myself. But you already knew that much.” 

John rubbed the back of his head. His left hand remained on Sherlock’s foot, but so stiffly, as if he were afraid to move it. 

“That’s why I’m bringing it up now,” Sherlock said. 

John met his eyes, nervous and concerned.

“If you’re worried that I’m going to come onto you, I’m not. You made it clear that you’re not interested.”

“So you are still attracted to me.”

John’s lips worked soundlessly for a second. He lifted his left hand from Sherlock’s foot, yet didn’t remove it from his lap, as if he were afraid to move.

“Well, yes. But it doesn’t mean anything. I love being friends with you. I don’t want to mess that up. Is that why you trembled earlier? That really is a friendship gesture. I’m not trying to sneak something else on you.”

“I didn’t think you were. That’s not why I… It was a stupid, instinctual reaction. I’m not used to people diving for my face like that. You were so upset and the thought entered my mind that you might kiss me.”

“I wouldn’t have,” John said, horrified at the idea. “Not without knowing if you would have welcomed it. I wasn’t even thinking of that.”

“I know. I think I knew then, but I just reacted. And I feared that I might have missed some unspoken sign from you.” Sherlock twisted his fingers in his lap. “I’m not adept at these things. Your admission that day is all I’ve had to go on. So I wanted to clear the air. I don’t mind you being attracted to me the way you are, which I assume are in the ways that I cannot feel. At least, I’m sure I don’t understand sexual attraction. I’m less certain about romantic attraction as I can’t find a good definition for what it is, but romantic things don’t interest me. I never think of someone in a romantic sense. I’m not interested in being anyone’s boyfriend. I want a friend. A close friend. You’ve become a close friend. But I’m not sure if I want to stick with the definition of “friend” that my culture uses. I was so glad when you said that your own encourages friends to be physically affectionate, because I want that. I like touching you, and I can tell that you like touching me.”

John looked down at Sherlock’s foot, which still rested on his lap, and bit his lip.

“I do,” he said. “But it’s not just… I want to touch you as a friend. I don’t need more than that. We could spoon and cuddle in ways that your culture views as romantic without it having mean that. If you want. We don’t place limits on these activities. It makes more sense now, why you don’t, either. I was surprised earlier, and I thought maybe there was something else going on, but I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to be presumptuous. In my experience, straight blokes don’t tend to react to another bloke finding them attractive with a long-suffering ‘how tiresome’.”

“I suppose not.” Sherlock leaned forward, studying John’s face, breath held in his throat. “I do find you attractive, for the record.”

John smiled softly.

“Do you? In a puppy dog sort of way?”

Sherlock smiled back. The nervousness rattling under his skin ebbed, yet tentative apprehension remained tight in his throat.

“A bit more than that. You’ve very nice to look at. I do feel aesthetic attraction. And sensual attraction. But I don’t want sex. I’m not sure about kissing, but open mouthed kissing looks very unappealing to me. But I would like to spoon and cuddle you. I’d like that very much.”

“I’d like that, too.”

John returned his hands to Sherlock’s leg, stroking up his shin. Sherlock slipped his left foot into his lap and nudged at John’s wrists with his toes, a thrill going through him as John’s smile widened and he transferred his hold to that foot, which he could massage without fearing causing Sherlock pain. And he did so, but slowly, tentative, their discussion still unfinished. 

“Are you sure you don’t mind how I’m attracted to you?” he asked with an uncertain frown. “I’m not going to impose if you don’t want something.”

All remaining apprehension flowed away, lightening Sherlock’s chest.

“That’s all the reassurance I need. I don’t mind at all.”

Sherlock scooted forward, bending his knees when his feet pressed against the opposite side of the sofa. John noticed and moved as well, meeting him halfway in the middle cushion. Sherlock’s legs were draped in his lap, knees sticking up. John wrapped his right arm around Sherlock’s waist to support him, the gesture so habitual by now that neither needed to ask. 

“This is why you allowed me to help you on the stairs,” John said, eyes sparkling, “even after you didn’t need it, didn’t you? So I would touch you.”

Sherlock smirked. 

“You’re quite observant when you put your mind to it.”

John laughed. God, Sherlock could spend all day regarding the contours of that handsome face and never be bored. 

“Why, thank you. That’s high praise coming from you.”

Sherlock touched his right cheek, grinning at the warmth of John’s skin, indicating what he was about to do. John closed his eyes as Sherlock leaned in, letting him take the lead in the nuzzling. It was a struggle not to laugh at the silliness of rubbing his nose against John’s, but there was nothing infantile or ridiculous about this. His heart quickened as he pressed his cheek to John’s, John moving beside him, his five o’clock shadow rasping lightly against his own. He welcomed it, breath caught in his throat, growing shallow, but there was nothing to fear, no romantic or sexual signal for John to misconstrue. John wasn’t going to kiss him out of the blue, nor ask for sex or a date nor anything confusing. Though he was plenty confused by this. Sherlock had confirmed that this was a platonic display to him, yet he had never engaged in anything so warmly intimate, never been this vulnerable with anyone before. Mycroft didn’t count. Victor had never known him like this, not even in three years of friendship. Sherlock had only stopped thinking that there was something wrong with him after Victor left. And would Victor have even wanted to do this? He certainly seemed to have reserved this form of affection for his sexual partners.

But enough about Victor. Why think about him now? He was gone, a faded speck in the rearview mirror. John was here, a living presence in his arms. Or rather, Sherlock was in his, for John had both arms wrapped around him now, while Sherlock only held him with his hands, grasping the back of his head. 

“I’ve missed this,” John murmured in a nostalgic exhale. 

They settled, Sherlock’s left cheek to John’s right, breathing in unison. Sherlock’s heart still thundered in his chest, overwhelmed and amazed at what was happening.

“Have you held anyone since you moved to the land?” Sherlock asked, unsure if it was rude to.

“I’ve had sex and cuddled some people, but it’s been a while. But this. Face nuzzling. I’ve never done it with a human before. It’s like getting part of myself back.”

“I understand perfectly. I’m glad I could oblige.”

Small shivers broke across Sherlock’s skin as John’s warm breath brushed along it. He could have this without any expectation of sex. No demands for anything he didn’t want. It hardly seemed credible. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“I’m loving this, but I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

Sherlock immediately backed away.

“I’m sorry. I should have thought about the angle.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” John’s beautiful eyes looked at him with hope. “If you want to cuddle some more, the bed would be easier. If you want.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply in excitement. 

“I do.”

John flashed him a brilliant smile. 

They were both jittery as they made their way upstairs. John lingered by his side on the staircase, shoulder brushing against Sherlock’s, not holding his arm since they’d ceased doing that a few days ago, but there in case Sherlock needed him. They both knew that was an excuse, but they played along just for the contact. Their hands strayed close together. Sherlock was seized by the urge to take it, but it might be too soon for that. They hadn’t mentioned handholding yet. Best wait until they did. 

“We should change into something more comfortable,” Sherlock said, glancing at their dress shirts and slacks. “Unless… You aren’t used to cuddling with clothes on, are you?”

Uncertainty flashed across John’s face.

“Well, no, but would that make you uncomfortable? I don’t mind having clothes on.”

While seeing John in the nude didn’t bother Sherlock, the thought of being pressed against him like that did give him a jolt of fear and nerves. John wouldn’t try anything. He hardly needed to be naked to do so. But Sherlock didn’t want to be naked himself. No, he didn’t. But he wouldn’t be adverse to skin contact. Quite the opposite. He would love some.

“How about being partly clothed?” he said. “Pants on. I think that will work for me.”

“Okay. But if you’re uncomfortable, you tell me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sherlock turned away to undress, even though it made no sense. John was about to see his body, anyway, and he wouldn’t be exposing any more skin than if he were going for a swim. Yet the act of removing his clothes in John’s bedroom, for the purpose of touching John in his bed, made this so much more intimate and charged. He had to force himself to breathe as more air touched his bare skin with every piece of fabric he removed, his heart loud in his ears again as he gripped his clothes in sweaty hands and folded them up on the bedside table. 

John was undressed when he turned around. He stood no less awkwardly than Sherlock did, despite not being fully nude, like he was used to being around Sherlock when he transformed. 

“Ready?” he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. He slipped into the bed first, pushing back the covers and sliding his legs in, his toes suddenly cold, a nervous reaction, perhaps. But he didn’t regret this decision despite the nerves fluttering in his belly. He wanted John to scooch in beside him like he was doing now, to reach out and encircle him in his arms like he had downstairs, to sink into his warmth and breathe him in. It would be a cliché to say that John smelled like the sea, but it was true. Sweat removed salt from the body, so the scent of it in John’s might be no more than that, yet Sherlock couldn’t escape the fanciful notion that John smelled like the breeze coming in from the ocean, bright and crisp and beguiling. They faced each other at first, gazes meeting tentatively as knees stroked knees and arms wrapped around torsos. John moved forward so that their chests met, pushing against each other as they breathed. Sherlock’s right hand brushed John’s on the bed between them, so close to the handholding that he desired to try, yet he still shied from taking the extra plunge. 

“Is this okay?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. He bit his lower lip.

“More than okay. Is this how you’ve held friends before?”

“Not all of them, but some. Romantic partners, too, for full disclosure, but I’m not thinking of this like that.”

Had John’s confessed attraction been romantic? He hadn’t specified. His haste to reassure Sherlock in this manner suggested that it was.

“I don’t know that I would mind you thinking of this like that.” 

John’s eyes narrowed.

“You don’t? You said you don’t want to be anyone’s boyfriend.”

“I don’t. What I mean is, if what you feel for me is romantic, I don’t mind. I can’t ask you to stop feeling something. You could hardly oblige. As long as you respect my boundaries and don’t force me to go on a horse carriage ride or buy me flowers and chocolates or any of that nonsense, I don’t see that it need affect much.”

“I’ll always respect your boundaries. Don’t worry about that for a second. And I’m not into horse drawn carriages, anyway, outside of period films. I’m pretty rubbish at all the human romance stuff, actually, to my detriment.” John smiled. “Until now, that is.”

Sherlock smiled back. 

“Yes, that’s most certainly not a flaw to me. I can’t bear any of that. I’m glad I’m not going to have to fend it off from you.”

“So what do you want to do? Carry on like we have until now, only with this?” 

John stroked his thumb along Sherlock’s back to punctuate his point. Sherlock gasped internally at the thrill of his touch. He had never been touched this much and for this long, not since he was a small child by his mother and Mycroft before things grew strained and bitter between them. 

“That sounds good to me,” Sherlock said. “Would you like that?”

“Yeah, sounds good to me, too. You are liking this so far?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Oh, yes. It’s even better than I imagined.”

“So you’ve been fantasizing about it?”

“Mm. A bit.”

John raised a brow.

“Alright, a lot,” Sherlock said. 

He looked down at John’s hand, so close to his own. It lied palm upwards, fingers curled, soft and beguiling. John noticed his regard.

“Do you want to…” he asked, shifting his hand towards Sherlock, but not touching yet.

Sherlock nodded. John completed the motion, pressing their hands together palm to palm. Their fingers twinned, slowly, both still afraid to push it.

“You’re going to have to take the lead,” Sherlock said, voice rasping nervously, breath short. “I’m afraid I’m woefully ignorant about these matters.”

John’s fingers curled all the way down to Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock did the same, breath caught in his throat. 

“If this works out, you won’t be for long.”

Sherlock grinned.

“Yeah.”

Closing his eyes, John pressed himself even closer and nuzzled Sherlock’s face. Now this Sherlock knew how to do. What a thrilling thought that was. Even if he had been interested in snogging, this would have been far more intimate, for he was engaging with John’s culture. Him, a human, acting like a selkie. Had any other human been granted such an honor? It was very well possible, although John assured him that long-term human-selkie unions were nowhere near as frequent as folktales suggested. 

“I’m most certainly eager to become an expert in this,” Sherlock said, rubbing John’s cheek with his nose.

Chuckling, John began to rub up Sherlock’s back in smooth circles. Sherlock did the same, laying his left foot over John’s right, stroking his heel with his toes. 

“None of this is too much for you?” John asked.

“No. You?”

“Not at all. But, to be clear, this is getting more involved than it would with a friend.”

Sherlock leaned back so that he could meet John’s eyes. 

“Would you rather call it something else? I have no problem with that, as long as you don’t call me your boyfriend.”

“I won’t, don’t worry. Out of curiosity, though, is there a particular reason why you don’t like that term?”

“It’s just not genuine to who I am. It would feel like a pretense, and I despise those if they’re not conducive to my work. If it is work related, then it’s wicked fun, but I demand to be myself and not put on an act when I don’t want to. You must see my costume wardrobe when you come to London. I’ve taken up half the bedroom upstairs, which Mrs. Hudson moans about, but it’s not like she’s going to be moving anyone else into it.”

A shadow had come over John’s eyes. 

Oh. Right. Sherlock didn’t live here. He lived over two hours away in a different city, too far too see each other daily. The only kind of relationship they could have after Sherlock left was a long distance one.

“We haven’t talked about when you’ll leave,” John said, slowly, looking down at their hands.

“I don’t know yet.”

He had begun to get restless now that John had imparted most of his knowledge to Sherlock and there was little that he could research on his own. He had no equipment here for experiments, and a case from Gregson wasn’t forthcoming. He’d checked. 

“Are you waiting for your ankle to be fully healed?”

“Preferably. But I haven’t wanted to leave. I wanted to stay with you. I haven’t had a friend, a true friend, someone who I can open myself up to in so long. I’m being more open with you now than I have been with anyone.”

“Me, too. I was afraid that we might crowd each other too much with you here full time, but we haven’t, have we?”

“No. I’m surprised, too. I was afraid that you would kick me out after a couple of days.”

“Why? Because you spent the second night barely saying a word, while the next you subjected me to an epic rant about the idiocy of the police department for being such thickheaded berks?”

“That tends to annoy people.”

“Well, you couldn’t help the former. That’s what going semi-verbal is.”

“It still annoys people.”

“Well, those people are berks. On the latter, though, I’d say you can’t expect everyone to be as perceptive as you, but you clearly do.”

“It’s not so bloody difficult. Anyone can train themselves to observe.”

“Not the way you can.”

Sherlock scoffed. John frowned, but not at Sherlock’s dismissive reply.

“We strayed off topic, didn’t we?” he said, weary. “On purpose.”

He stroked Sherlock’s hand with his thumb.

“Yes, we did.”

“It’s not as bad as all that. We can visit on weekends. The distance might be too much for a single day trip, but not for that. It wasn’t like we were going to be moving in together so fast, anyway. If at all.”

Right. This arrangement was always meant to be temporary, not any sort of commitment, which would have been strange, in any case, after having known each other for only a week.

“Visiting on weekends works for me,” Sherlock said, trying to focus on solutions. “Although my schedule is erratic, so taking turns won’t always work.”

“That’s okay. Just let me know when you’re working and we’ll skip those weekends.”

But Sherlock didn’t want to skip any weekends. He wanted John with him at Baker Street, but it was much too soon to propose such a thing, even if that weren’t taking him away from the ocean, which he needed so badly. How could Sherlock ask him to abandon it for a flat in the midst of an urban jungle with only a river that you couldn’t swim in? 

“What kind of relationship do you want?” John asked. “You said earlier that you’d like to go beyond your culture’s definition of ‘friend’, but we didn’t go into that.”

What kind of relationship did Sherlock want?

“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. I want to continue what we have.”

“Do you want some sort of commitment?”

Yes, that sounded right.

“If that would be agreeable to you.”

John glanced at their joined hands, licking his bottom lip as he considered his reply.

“Since it doesn’t bother you for me to say it, I do have romantic feelings for you. If you also felt them for me—it’s totally okay that you don’t—but if you did, then my answer would be simple. I’d want to be with you as a couple. Monogamous. But you don’t want to be a couple, which is fine. I don’t want to impose anything on you.”

“I appreciate that, but your simple answer helps immensely. Committed monogamy isn’t only the province of romantic relationships. Although I’m not sure if a queerplatonic relationship would be applicable since you feel romantic attraction towards me.”

“I’m not familiar with that term.”

“It’s a committed, platonic relationship. More intimate than friendship. It can be monogamous or not. In many ways, it can seem like a romantic relationship to an outsider, only it’s not. I’ve only read about them, though, not been in one, obviously. But for my part, when I think of what I want with you, I think along those lines. I would also like something monogamous, unless the lack of sex is going to be a problem.”

“If it were, I would have made it clear before now. I like sex, but I don’t need it. As long as I get plenty of this,” John rubbed Sherlock’s back smiling, “I’ll be more than okay, trust me.”

Sherlock grinned.

“Oh, I do intend to do plenty of this,” he said. “For as long as you let me.”

“I’m hoping that’s a long time to come.”

“Me, too. What about snogging? Would you miss that?”

“It’s not much of a thing among selkies, actually. That’s a human habit that some of us have picked up, but I can take it or leave it.”

“Really? How refreshing.”

“Not all human cultures do it, either, you know?”

“Huh. Good to know.”

“It seems that we don’t have as many barriers to overcome as I thought. Terminology aside, we pretty much want the same thing, don’t we?”

“It would seem so.”

“Let’s forget about what to call it. We’re together. That’s all we need to say.”

“I like that. What about what to call each other? Partner? That’s non-specific enough.”

“I like that. Let’s go with that. Partners.”

John nuzzled Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock leaned into the touch, grinning even wider, excitement and elation bursting inside him.

“Partners.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a conversation about overdosing in this chapter.

They settled into a comfortable embrace, foreheads touching, eyes closed, chests pressed together in a gentle rise and fall as their breaths synced up. Sherlock brushed his fingers through John’s hair, delighting at its softness, massaging his scalp in small circles. John hummed in appreciation. Sherlock smiled at the lovely sound. John returned the favor in kind by stroking Sherlock’s hair, his fingers carefully tracing the folds of his curls. 

“I love your hair,” John said.

“Thank you. I was about to say the same about yours.”

“Thanks. I think yours is nicer, though. Mine’s greying fast. I’ve only seen one grey hair in yours.”

“Luck of the draw, but don’t undersell the charm of yours. They mix well with your natural blond. Like the speckled nuance of tan colored sand.”

“Really? Sand? I’m an ocean being, so you compare my hair to sand?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, fearing for a second that John might be offended, but the lightness in his eyes and voice indicated that he only spoke in jest. 

“Earlier,” Sherlock said, “I thought that you smelled like the sea.”

John snorted.

“Oh, come on. You were probably just smelling the salt in my sweat.”

“I did consider that, but I like the sea interpretation better.”

“Okay. Are you going to compare my eyes to the sea, too, because they’re blue?”

“Most certainly.” Sherlock peered closely at said eyes, which regarded him with amusement. “The color of the deepest ocean. Were it daytime, they would sparkle like the bright horizon in a sunny day. I can even see the sun at the edges of your pupils, hints of gold.”

John giggled softly, looking away for a moment as pink colored his cheeks. The tender sight urged Sherlock to lean forward and lay a kiss on John’s nose. John laughed harder, even more delighted.

“I didn’t know you were a poet as well as a musician,” John said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Please, that was just simple observation.”

“Simple observation doesn’t involve metaphors.”

“They were required to give the proper impression. I could just say that they’re dark blue and that you have central heterochromia, but that description would fall far short.”

“Hm, I suppose. But you put me at a disadvantage. I can’t come up with something so pretty to describe your eyes, as astonishing as they are to look at.”

“Astonishing? I’d say you’re off to a good start. Please, continue.”

John floundered for a moment, looking amusingly put upon. 

“They look like…” John’s brow winkled in thought. “A flowery meadow.”

Sherlock raised a brow.

“A flowery meadow?”

John cringed at his own phrasing, rubbing his face in embarrassment. 

“I know. It’s too cheesy. I’m not good at this, okay? It’s all I could think of. Your eyes are blue, but also green and brown. You have heterochromia, too. They keep changing with the light.”

“So you thought of flowers?” Sherlock grinned. “How sweet.”

John covered his face with both hands, groaning.

“Oh God. Let’s move on, please. Uh, how about if we spoon for a bit? Do you want to do that? You did express interest earlier.”

Sherlock chuckled at John’s obvious change of subject, but he wasn’t about to turn down that offer. 

“I’d love to.”

He turned around and pressed his back to John’s chest, grabbing John’s arm as soon as it wrapped around him. Taking his hand in both of his, he stroked his fingers, feeling along the edge of the bones from his wrist to his nails and back again. John tucked his head on Sherlock’s nape, nose pressing as softly as his warm breath. Due to Sherlock’s greater height, John’s toes nudged at Sherlock’s calves, massaging his skin like Sherlock had stroked him before. 

“Is this good?” John asked.

“Marvelous.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid shut. Contentment washed over him, led by John’s warmth pressed along his body. This was even more enjoyable than he could possibly have imagined. He felt safe and peaceful in a way that he couldn’t describe, yet also overwhelmed by a heady sensation, almost as if he were high. But this was much better than any effect a narcotic could achieve. He was happy. Yes, that’s what this feeling was. Happiness. Solving a difficult case made him happy. Mrs. Hudson effusively complimenting his violin playing made him happy. Yet this was happiness of a different sort, a kind that he had never experienced before, and didn’t know how to quantify or analyze. 

“That massage feels nice,” John said.

He sounded happy, too. Relaxed. Glad to have Sherlock with him. How often had that ever happened?

“Good.”

They fell into an easy silence, marked only by the sound of their breaths and the pleasant lullaby of the waves beating against the shore near the house. After a while, Sherlock’s motions died down and he took to studying John’s hand. John’s fingers were smaller than his own. Short nails, neatly cut, receiving no special maintenance. The skin of his knuckles was a bit dry and cracked from the lowered humidity of March, but not badly so. He applied lotion. Cocoa butter, from the scent clinging to his skin. The top portion of his middle finger tilted slightly to the right, while the rest of his fingers ran straight. An old injury? Something had exerted pressure against that part of his finger. Oh, of course. John was right handed.

“Did your finger get bent when you learned how to write?” Sherlock asked.

John laughed.

“Are you completely incapable of lying still and thinking about nothing?”

“I can lie still for days. Mrs. Hudson complains about it. And no one is ever thinking about nothing. The brain is always at work. But no. My mind is always awake. Always working. I can no more relax it than a cat can decide to go vegetarian. I only ever found one way of doing so, but I had to give that up.”

Huh. He hadn’t meant to mention that last bit. He hadn’t referenced it directly, so there was still time to backtrack and avoid the subject, although John would certainly ask what he was talking about.

“The drugs,” John said, tone somber.

Or he might figure out the obvious himself. Sherlock ceased his study of John’s hand and rested it back against his chest. 

“Yes.”

The silence between them was not so comfortable now. Damn it, why did he have to open his mouth and say that? Though it wasn’t like he hadn’t already shown John his needle scars and made it clear that it wasn’t pharmaceuticals that had made them. 

“You can ask, you know,” Sherlock said. “I’ll tell you.”

John’s heavy sigh gusted against his nape. He rubbed the back of Sherlock’s head with apologetic fingers.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to. I used to take heroin and cocaine. Sometimes other things, but those were my main ones.”

John took a moment to absorb this information. 

“For how long?”

“On and off since I was sixteen. I couldn’t indulge much at school, but it got easier in uni. Mycroft caught me at it a lot. He tried to get me to stop. I didn’t listen. After he found me in a drug den, so out of it that I could barely move, he just made me promise to write down what I was about to take so that when he found me, he could give me the proper, medical care. I indulged less after I met Victor. The habit got harder to sustain after we became flatmates, although I wasn’t as interested. Eventually, I stopped altogether, although the urge still came over me at times. But I got better at it, until… Until he left.

“I accompanied Victor to the airport to say good-bye. Mycroft tailed me, made sure to keep me in his sights so that I wouldn’t slip away afterwards. He took me to his house. Stayed with me the entire day and night. He knew that if he left me alone, I would run off to get a fix. I ended up staying there for a week. But he couldn’t remain with me all the time. He had to work. I promised not to leave. He wasn’t sure if he should trust me. I didn’t know if he should, either, or how much I meant to keep my promise. Well, I did for that week, distracting myself with books and puzzles and figuring out unsolved cases that Mycroft left with me to keep me busy. Highly illegal for him to do that, but he has never fussed overmuch over that. It did keep me entertained for a bit. Victor emailed. We were in contact, but he was so busy with the move that he only wrote to me twice in that week. I read them over so many times.”

Sherlock was clinging too tightly to John’s hand, palms sweating. But John didn’t protest. He squeezed back, stroking his hair, his breath a soothing balm on Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, scarcely able to breathe. 

“You used again, didn’t you?” John asked, voice soft, not judging.

Sherlock nodded.

“I snuck out, went to my dealer, and came back. There was no way to ensure that Mycroft’s security system wouldn’t catch my coming and going, but there was no helping it. I made it look like I’d gone out for a pack of cigarettes, which he only allowed me the first day before cutting me off for health reasons. As if he doesn’t smoke himself when his emotions are compromised, the hypocrite. I lit up the first cigarette in full view of his front security camera, blowing a plume of smoke straight at it to mock him. There was a fifty-fifty chance that he would know that it was a ruse, but he would already have people checking my flat and I couldn’t stomach shooting up at some den. I’d told myself that I’d left that part behind me, at least. So I did it in Mycroft’s guest room. I just wanted to feel peace, just for a little bit. Nothing else.”

John tensed at his back, his hand stilling on Sherlock’s head.

“Did you OD?” he asked.

“Not on purpose,” Sherlock whined, gasping. “I wasn’t trying to do anything permanent. I just wanted a high. To forget. To feel good, and being sober felt bloody awful. It was only a little bit of an overdose. Stupid, yes, but not anywhere near as dramatic as Mycroft made it seem. It had been over a year since I’d taken drugs. I miscalculated. I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t mean to do it. But it was good that Mycroft didn’t buy my ruse. He found me passed out on the bed. I barely remember a second of it. Him shaking me, shouting my name, telling me to wake up. He looked scared.”

Guilt twisted in Sherlock’s gut at the remembrance. However much Mycroft had violated his privacy since, Sherlock had fucked up that day. 

“The next thing I remember is waking up in hospital. He sat in one of those uncomfortable chairs next to me. He didn’t yell. Didn’t say how disappointed he was. I couldn’t even see disappointment in his face, though I’m sure he must have been feeling it. He said that he didn’t think that I had been trying to kill myself, but I could see that he wasn’t sure. I apologized, told him that I made a mistake. That I would go to rehab. Stay clean. And I have stayed clean. I’ve wanted to use, but I haven’t.”

He couldn’t bear to see that terrified sorrow on Mycroft’s face again. As much as he couldn’t stand the git at times, he couldn’t be the cause of that. 

“I’m sorry,” John said, resting his forehead on the side of Sherlock’s neck. “I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been.”

Horrible was putting it mildly. Sherlock rubbed John’s forearm, breathing deep. He feared looking at John’s face right now, but he needed to see. He shifted onto his back, clinging to John’s hand no less tightly, breath clenched in his throat as he met John’s eyes. Warm, caring, concerned eyes. The hand that brushed Sherlock’s fringe from his forehead projected no judgment, no disgust. 

“I’ve never told anyone that,” Sherlock said, voice barely above a whisper.

He’d told Mrs. Hudson about Victor, but not this part. 

“I’m glad you told me,” John said. He smiled in reassurance, a tense, wan thing. “And I’m very glad that you’re better now. And that you have a brother that’s there for you. I know that you two rub each other the wrong way and that he oversteps a lot. I probably shouldn’t be commenting on it.”

“No, it’s fine. I get it. He is an insufferable berk at times, but I know what you mean.”

If John’s family had ever tried to reach out despite his banishment, he would have mentioned it. The hurt nostalgia pinching his face as he glanced away confirmed that they had not. Mycroft might be irritating, but at least he was there when Sherlock needed him. John’s whole family had deserted him, the cold bastards. Sherlock tugged down John’s head and pressed their foreheads together. 

“Thank you for not making a big deal about this,” Sherlock said.

“Of course not.” John leaned back to meet his eyes. “I’m hardly perfect myself. You know the worst thing I‘ve ever done. As long as you’re taking care of yourself and staying clean, that’s all that matters to me.”

The truth of this was palpable in his caring gaze. Sherlock smiled.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock awoke the next morning with an ecstatic feeling of well-being and joy. John was already downstairs making breakfast. They hadn’t shared the bed to sleep. That was a bit too much, too fast after so many years of not sleeping with anyone for both of them, but Sherlock opened himself up to the possibility of doing so one day soon, perhaps before he returned to London. The thought of leaving punctured his happiness a bit, but he shook it off. Never mind that. He was here now with a half-awake John, who stood by the stove in a well-worn, white t-shirt and blue pajama bottoms, hair tousled, a strand sticking straight up. He turned toward Sherlock as he entered the kitchen, smiling. 

“Good morning,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if you would be getting up yet.”

“And miss breakfast with you on this morning of all mornings? Nonsense.”

Indulging another of the forms of touch that he had become so curious about in the last few days, Sherlock hugged John from behind, wrapping his arms firmly around his torso and sinking his face into John’s hair, inhaling his distinctive scent.

“I can smell the sea in your hair,” Sherlock murmured.

John shook his head, unintentionally nuzzling Sherlock’s nose as he returned to the eggs that he was frying.

“Now I’m sure you’re making that up.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Sherlock grinned into John’s hair. 

“Maybe a little.”

He deposited a loud kiss on John’s head and let go to fish his phone out of his dressing gown pocket. 

“I’m telling Mrs. Hudson about us,” he said. “I could do a video call. Introduce the two of you. Get it out of the way.”

“Oh, no. Don’t you dare call right now if that’s what you’re doing. I’m not dressed for that.”

“Come on. She won’t care. Besides, she’ll be charmed by your messy hair.”

John brushed his fingers through said hair, pressing it flat as well as he could. 

“After I get dressed, not before,” he said in a firm command and turned back to the eggs, which he transferred onto two plates. “Hang on,” he said, frowning over his shoulder. “You said she’s a mother figure to you. Is this going to be like meeting your mum? Do I need to make a good impression? I mean, I don’t intend on making a bad impression.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re a doctor. Isn’t that what all mums want their children to bring home?”

“What about your parents? Oh, and Mycroft.”

“I’ll tell Mycroft later. My parents can also wait. Much, much later.”

“You don’t want to tell them?”

Sherlock frowned at his phone screen before putting it back in his pocket and pouring himself a cup of tea. 

“They don’t know about me,” he said. “It hadn’t been relevant before, and I don’t have the energy to tell them now. They’re not supportive. In any sense, but especially not this one.”

When Mycroft had come out to them, they had thrown a fit and proceeded to act as if the conversation had never happened. 

“Oh,” John said, the apologetic awkwardness in his face indicting that he took Sherlock’s meaning. “I’m sorry to hear that. So just Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, then? I take it that you did tell Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock nodded.

“She kept dropping little comments, trying to fish out of me whether I would one day bring a girlfriend or boyfriend home.”

John turned off the stove and looked at him, mindful of Sherlock’s expression.

“How did she react?”

“Rather well. She asked what the terms meant. I explained. She hugged me. Then she went online and bought me aro and ace flags.”

A smile of delighted surprise jerked onto John’s face.

“She did?”

“Four days later, there they were standing on my desk.”

“That is certainly a good reaction. Did you keep them?”

“I did. They’re still on the desk.”

A smile tugged on Sherlock’s face as he pictured the flags, a bit shoved against the wall now since he needed the space, but always present. John returned his smile with one of his own.

“I’m happy to hear that she was so supportive. I look forward to meeting her.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone again.

“No,” John said, stern. “Don’t you dare.” 

He grabbed the plates and rushed out of the kitchen. Laughing, Sherlock put the phone away. 

It proved surprisingly hard to wait until the end of breakfast to inform Mrs. Hudson about his new, happy state. He almost slipped when she sent him another puppy picture, basically her new way of saying hello since Sherlock responded more readily to them. He waited impatiently while John got showered and dressed, scrolling through his news sites without actually focusing on any of the stories until John finally returned downstairs. He stopped at the end of the staircase, shoulders tense, hands bunched into nervous fists at his sides. He wore his usual attire, an off-white cable knit jumper with jeans and brown, leather shoes, and his hair was brushed to perfection. Soft. Approachable. Perfect for snuggles, but Sherlock must control that urge else he mess up John’s appearance and delay the announcement even further. 

“Ready?” Sherlock asked.

Raising his chin, John breathed deeply through his nose and nodded.

“Ready.”

He went over to the sofa and sat next to Sherlock, who squeezed his hand.

“Relax,” he said. “She doesn’t bite. You already met the most intimidating member of my family and did great.”

“Right,” John said, rolling his shoulders to ease the tense muscles. “Yeah. Anything’s a walk in the park after Mycroft.”

Sherlock pulled up the video chat and called Mrs. Hudson, aiming the phone only at his face, his left leg jiggling. It took a while for her to answer, which made his leg shake even more, but her face finally popped up on the screen. Well, half her face. She still hadn’t learned to aim her camera properly, but the half that he could see looked delighted at the unexpected form of communication.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” she said. “What brought this on? You never call me like this.”

“It’s a special occasion. I want you to meet John.”

Sherlock tilted the phone over to John, who waved at Mrs. Hudson with an eager smile.

“Hello,” he said in his most polite tone, trying to disguise his nervousness. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t buy it. Her observational skills might be as lackluster as most people’s, but she had a keen eye for when someone sought to dissemble with her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sherlock speaks very highly of you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, dear. It was so nice to hear that Sherlock made a friend over there. And the doctor who found him on the beach, too. I must thank you for tending to him. I was so worried when I heard.”

Sherlock tilted the phone back toward him. 

“It was a couple of cuts and a sprained ankle,” he said, peeved. “I was hardly dying.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, turning the phone back towards him.

“There’s no need to thank me, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, still smiling. “It was the least I could do.”

“He must have been a handful.”

John’s smile widened in amusement.

“Oh, yes, that he was.”

Sherlock didn’t like the direction this was taking. Pressing his head against John’s, he extended his arm out further so that the camera would encompass both of them. 

“If you two are quite finished,” he said, “that is not the purpose of this call. I called to tell you that John and I are together.” Despite his annoyance, a large smile grew on Sherlock’s face as the words came out of his mouth. “We’re partners now. John’s bi, but we talked it all out and we’re going to make this work.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, her joyful expression warming up Sherlock inside. “That makes me so happy. I knew you looked unusually cheerful, Sherlock.”

“Unusually cheerful? I’m cheerful quite often.”

“Sure, when someone’s been murdered.”

John shot Sherlock a quizzical look. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

“I’m not happy that someone died,” he said. “I’m happy because I have a case to solve.”

“But someone needs to die for you to have that case, though,” John said. 

“Precisely,” Mrs. Hudson said. “But it’s not as bad as all that. Sherlock really is a kind soul beneath all that.”

“Beneath all that what?” Sherlock asked, increasingly annoyed. 

“You know very well, dear.”

This was ridiculous.

“I’m afraid that John has to head off to work now,” he said. “So this lovely discussion will have to be cut short.”

“I can stay a few more minutes,” John said. 

“And risk hitting unexpected traffic? Nonsense. You should leave now.”

John narrowed his eyes at him in annoyance, but gave in, turning back to the phone.

“It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you in London, where I won’t have any work commitments whatsoever.”

Sherlock cringed at the sharpness of John’s tone.

“It was so nice to meet you, too,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’m so glad that Sherlock has someone like you in his life now.”

A slight blush crept up John’s face at that. Sherlock felt the increased warmth as John pressed their cheeks together in good-bye. 

“I’ll see you later,” John said, sounding a fraction less peeved now, to Sherlock’s relief. With a final “Bye” to Mrs. Hudson, he got off the sofa and disappeared down the hall to the front door, which soon closed after him

“That was exactly the ‘all that’ I was referring to,” Mrs. Hudson said, fixing Sherlock with a disapproving expression. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You’ll have plenty of time to gossip about me when he visits London. Never mind that now. What did you think?”

“Oh, he seems wonderful. A handsome one, too. And a doctor. How nice. Might be a stabilizing influence for you.”

“God, you sound like Mycroft. I don’t need any sort of influence, stabilizing or otherwise. But he is wonderful.” A smile jerked on Sherlock’s face at that. “He loves music. He’s smart. Not as smart as me, obviously, but who is?”

“I hope you haven’t told him that. People don’t like hearing it.”

“I have, actually. He countered me by pointing out that he’s far more knowledgeable at certain subjects than me, so we’re even.”

“He challenges you. No wonder you’re so taken with him.”

“Yes, that’s certainly a plus. I’m never bored with him. It’s so hard to find non-boring people. And he doesn’t treat me like a freak.” Sherlock’s fingers wiggled in his lap. “He likes me for me, not just the usefulness of my intellectual abilities.”

Mrs. Hudson’s face softened. If she were physically here, she’d be touching Sherlock’s shoulders right now to physically reassure him. She didn’t try to deny that most people just saw him as a tool to be used or a pesky annoyance, for how could anyone deny that? Those who actually liked him and weren’t just grateful to him because they owed him a favor were very few. He could count them all in one hand. Once, long ago, he had feared that Mrs. Hudson might be amongst the latter, but she had stuck by him, calling him regularly, calls that Sherlock would answer despite preferring to text, inviting him over for tea and dinner, putting up with his infodumping and rants of whatever was annoying him that day, and offering him a place to live when she bought the building at 221 Baker Street. A much nicer place than the tiny, cramped one bedroom that Sherlock had been stuck in before in a much less central part of the city. And, to ensure that he could manage it, she insisted on giving him a discount on his rent so deep that Sherlock was sure that he wasn’t paying her even half of what the space was worth. 

“I really am so happy that you found him,” she said. “He’s good for you, I can tell.”

“He is.” 

Sherlock smiled again. 

“How are you going to manage the distance, though, when you come back to London?”

“We’ll take turns visiting each other on weekends, at least the ones when I’m not busy. It’s not ideal, but I can’t ask him to move. Two weeks is rather too early to request that, isn’t it?”

“Just a bit, yes. But it’s not that far.”

“No. It’s totally manageable. It will work.”

Why had he sounded so damn uncertain right there?

“Of course it will work,” Mrs. Hudson said in her firmest, most comforting voice. “He’s known you for two weeks and has just committed to you. You’re hardly likely to chase him away now.”

Sherlock frowned at her in silent protest.

“You know what I mean, dear,” she said. “And you did just kick him out of his own home.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“He did have to go to work soon. I wasn’t making that up. It’s fine. If he really didn’t have to leave, he would have stayed.”

“I would hope so. Will he be needing the upstairs bedroom when he comes? You’ll need to clear out your mess if you do.”

“I don’t know yet. And it’s not a mess. It’s essential equipment.”

“Not everything. When are you ever going to need a polyester shirt? They’re hardly likely to come back in fashion, are they?”

“You never know. I might need it to infiltrate a fancy dress party.”

“There are other things you can wear.”

“Never mind. I’ll figure it out when I get back. No, I don’t know when that will be, especially not now.”

“Don’t feel any rush to come back in a hurry. Take all the time you need to get acquainted with John. Oh, this is so exciting. I had hoped that he’d become a good friend when you said that you were staying with him, but I never thought this might happen.”

“Neither did I.”

It still felt like the most amazing, incredible thing. Too longed for and happy to be real. 

“You are alright staying on your own for longer, aren’t you?” he asked.

Why had this not occurred to him until now? She was an old woman, living by herself. Sure, she was hardly helpless. And the owners of the café next door checked in on her when he was away, as well as Lestrade, but this trip had prolonged itself to nearly a month by now, much longer than any of his previous absences. John or not, he shouldn’t leave her alone for much longer.

“I’m alright,” she said, eyes softening. “Stay with John a little longer. It will do you good. Are you going to tell Mycroft about John?”

Sherlock sighed.

“I’ll have to. He already met John.”

“Oh. He didn’t kidnap him, did he?”

“Yup.”

Now it was Mrs. Hudson’s turn to sigh in exasperation.

“Honestly, that brother of yours. There’s protectiveness, and then there’s Mycroft Holmes. I have half a mind to give him a stern telling to.”

“Please do. But wait until I get back so that I can enjoy the chastised look on his face. I rarely get to see it and it’s such fun.”

Despite the smirk on his face, the thought of Mycroft reawakened the awkward feeling in Sherlock’s gut that he’d experienced last night when John had pointed out that Mycroft was actually present in Sherlock’s life, unlike his own disgraceful family. 

“I should probably call him now and get it over with,” Sherlock said. “I’ll let you know when I’m heading back.”

“Alright. Have a wonderful time, dear.”

He returned her smile.

“Thank you,” he said, and ended the call. 

He pulled up the regular phone app and stared at the screen. Mycroft would be at the Diogenes Club right now, sitting in the lounge reading the papers, agonizing with worry over Sherlock, as he always claimed to be. Huffing out a breath, Sherlock dialed his number and put the phone to his ear. There was no point texting him. He’d be calling him in a second to check that John wasn’t trampling on Sherlock’s oh so fragile feelings, as Mycroft believed them to be. 

Sherlock dialed his number. Mycroft answered right away, but didn’t speak, confirming that he was at the lounge and currently rushing to his office where he could talk to his heart’s content. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sherlock said. “I can hear you fretting over the phone.”

“I am not fretting,” Mycroft said some seconds later. “You would have begun speaking immediately were that the case.”

“Of course you’re fretting. You always are. You should learn how to relax. You’ll live longer.”

“How can I ever relax with you in my charge?”

“I’m not in your charge. I’m a grown man.”

“Who almost got stabbed to death two weeks ago because you’re still playing cops and robbers.”

Sherlock scowled.

“Meanwhile, you’re busy playing spy vs. spy and pretending to be the queen of England.”

Mycroft sighed. So melodramatic. 

“Never mind all that. I doubt that you’re calling only to annoy me.”

“You don’t know that. Perhaps I’ll take up the habit.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallowed his next words, pressing his lips together.

“There’s been a status change in my relationship with John.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’ve become partners. We’re not really labeling it, but John is okay calling it a QPR, if need be. He has romantic feelings for me, and the other ones, too, but we talked it all through.”

“When did this happen?”

Mycroft tried to disguise the shock in his voice, and did a horrible job of it, as usual.

“Last night.” Sherlock tapped restlessly on his leg. “He had admitted to being attracted to me when we first met, for lack of a better word, but I made it clear that I wasn’t interested.”

“But now you are interested.”

“Very much so.”

“You told him everything? He knows what you will and won’t do?”

“Yes. He’s fine with it. No problems there.” The smile that had come over Sherlock’s face withered a bit. “You don’t think that it’s going to become a problem in the future, do you?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there to gauge his reaction. Do you have any doubts about his honesty?”

Sherlock thought back to his discussion with John. His eager smiles. His earnest gaze, firmly reassuring Sherlock that he cared about Sherlock more than that one activity. The warmth in Sherlock’s own belly at the lack of subterfuge in his caring eyes.

“No,” Sherlock said, breathing more easily. “None at all. John’s a rotten liar. He wouldn’t have been able to get that one past me. But he might change his mind in the future.”

“Anyone might change their minds about anything in the future. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. But have you thought this through? You’ve only known him for two weeks.”

“You have sex with people after knowing them for an hour.”

“Hookups are a very different thing and you know it. You’re talking about an actual relationship. Commitment. Two weeks is rather fast for that. Have you thought this through?”

“Of course I have. And it’s not too fast. John and I have seen and shared more of each other than most people in the same time frame. He showed you what he is practically at the start. That was for me. So you can backdate our commitment to then. This one is just of a different sort.”

“I suppose.” Mycroft didn’t sound happy about this supposition. Of course not. When was he ever happy about anything that Sherlock did? “But this sort is new to you, nonetheless. Unless you’ve hidden another relationship from me all these years.”

Sherlock huffed.

“How likely do you think that is? You have a stranglehold on every interaction I make.”

“That’s hardly accurate.”

“It’s accurate enough. Victor left seven years ago. It was a mistake. An accident. I haven’t touched drugs since then. When are you going to trust me to make my own decisions?”

“When you stop chasing after criminals without any backup, any protection other than your over-inflated ego and your stupid assumptions that you’re invincible. If John hadn’t happened to be swimming by at exactly the right time, you would be dead. By your own admission. So don’t you dare argue with me. You replaced one addiction with another, and it’s just as likely to get you killed.”

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. He shot up from the sofa and paced around the room, but his ankle jerked in pain, forcing him to flop back down on the cushions, biting his bottom lip against a scream. 

“I’m not trying to get myself killed.”

Mycroft weary sigh crackled in the phone line. 

“I know you’re not. I wasn’t trying to say that you are.”

“It was an accident. How many times do I have to swear to you—”

“I know you weren’t trying to kill yourself. I know, alright? I don’t doubt you. But you still almost died. In my house, where I was supposed to protect you. How am I supposed not to worry? How?”

Sherlock dropped his head against the back of the sofa, raising the phone away from his mouth so that Mycroft wouldn’t hear him hold back a scream behind clenched teeth. Why did Mycroft always have to guilt him and make everything so damn difficult? Why couldn’t this one thing, just one, be simple? 

“Are you sulking?” Mycroft asked.

“I don’t sulk.”

“You are. Look, perhaps I am a little overzealous. I’ll back off. I can’t judge your relationship with John. Maybe two weeks isn’t too little, after all. I’d say something about his not being human bringing potential complications, but what do I know? I want you be happy. If you believe nothing else I say, believe that. Please.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid shut. Exhaustion dragged at every cell in his body. God damn it all. This was not how this call was supposed to go. He should have just texted and ignored Mycroft’s follow-up phone call. Why couldn’t he have done that? It would have been so much simpler. But no. He had to succumb to _feelings_. To John’s tender voiced assessment of Mycroft as a good brother. To his own shame at putting that look of terror in Mycroft’s face when he’d shaken Sherlock awake, mind lost in a miasma of his own devising, barely coherent enough to hear Mycroft pleading for him to wake up. 

_Wake up, Sherlock. Please wake up._

_Please._

Seven years wasn’t enough to wipe that shame clean.

“I’m sorry.”

The words slipped out of Sherlock’s mouth, but he wouldn’t take them back.

“Excuse me?”

Mycroft’s shock couldn’t have been greater if a UFO had appeared at his front door. 

“You heard me. I’m not going to repeat it.”

“I won’t push my luck, then.”

Mycroft sounded pleased. He better be after the agony that he was putting Sherlock through. 

“You better not. Are we done now? Are you going to stop worrying for five minutes? Oh, and you better not threaten John with some hackneyed speech about if he hurts me you’ll make him suffer.”

“Please, I would never do something so clichéd.”

“You already did when you kidnapped him. Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t express anything other than my most heartfelt congratulations.”

“Oh, please. Sarcasm just makes it worse. There’s no need for you to tell him anything at all.”

“We communicate regularly and you just made him my brother-in-law. I have to tell him something.”

Sherlock sputtered.

“Your br… That’s not… That doesn’t happen after only two weeks!”

“Oh, doesn’t it now?”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched so hard that it hurt.

“Fine. Go on, then. Be my guest.”

“Thank you. Congratulations to you, too, brother mine.”

Sherlock grit his teeth.

“Thank you,” he ground out.

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft said, pleased as punch.


	11. Chapter 11

“Mycroft just called to congratulate me,” John said, calling Sherlock during his lunch hour. “It sounds like your announcement went okay. Did it go okay?” 

“Okay enough. He made a fuss about how quickly we got together, but I got him to shut up about it. What exactly did he say to you?”

“Well, uh, he said congratulations. That he was happy for us. I don’t really know how to read his voice, but I think that he sounded sincere. He did mention that your last close friendship didn’t end well.” 

Sherlock groaned. 

“Of course he did, the sodding busybody.”

“I told him that I know about Victor. He just sounded concerned.”

“He’s always concerned. That’s his default emotion.”

“I don’t think he meant anything by it. Though you would know better, of course. But… I think he wanted to make sure that I wasn’t treating this like some casual fling, which I’m not. That I understand your needs. I told him that we can figure that out on our own. That I’m taking this just as seriously as you are. That you’re important to me. And… yeah.”

John was likely ducking his head with a determined look, half a smile jerking on his face. Sherlock wished that he could see it. They could turn this into a video call, but the moment would have passed. Oh, well. He’d be seeing John’s pretty face plenty tonight. 

“You’re refusal to be cowed by Mycroft is one of my favorite things about you,” Sherlock said, grinning.

“Oh, I’m sure he finds it very frustrating.”

“Agonizing.”

“Everyone else is scared of him, are they?”

“Except for Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade claims not to be, but he’s lying. So yes. You are a rare breed. It’s refreshing.”

“Happy to oblige. Shall I expect a token of your appreciation when I get home?”

The sudden flirtatiousness caught Sherlock off-guard.

“Sorry,” John said when Sherlock didn’t answer right away. “Was that too much? I know that people tend to use that to imply, you know, but I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. It’s fine. It just surprised me, that’s all.”

“I can avoid those kind of comments if you want.”

“No, I know that that… sex… isn’t what you mean by it. I’m not adverse to you using that phrasing to mean what we do. It actually sounds kind of fun, now that I think about it. Like a fuck you to the system. No offence.”

“None taken. Not my system. My culture is a lot more reasonable about these things. Yours is the one that’s delusional. No offence.”

Sherlock laughed. 

“Oh, on that we agree. My culture is a mad waste of space sometimes. About your question, yes, I will certainly be showing you my appreciation when you get home.”

“I’m looking forward to that. Can you spoon me this time? I wanted to last night but we didn’t get around to it.”

A thrill of anticipation rushed through Sherlock.

“It will be my pleasure.”

`````````````````````

Waiting for John to come home was agony. Sherlock tried to read, scrolled through Twitter, took a few steps outside, sat down on the porch facing the ocean, wondered how many magical, sea creatures swam under the waves just outside his vision, and went back inside to try to read again. 

He was lying down on the sofa, a book about venomous animals in his lap, when he heard John’s car pull up. He swiftly put the book down and sprang up to stand by the door. Not right by it. He didn’t want to scare John. About a meter out. That was far enough, wasn’t it? Maybe he should have stayed on the sofa. Did he look too overeager now? Why should he greet John differently now than he had any other night? Was John expecting a different greeting? Should he ask? He plopped down on the sofa right as John’s keys clicked the door lock open, sitting back against the armrest, facing the door. The next moment, John appeared, his pretty smile filling Sherlock with a happiness that he hadn’t felt in ages. He carried a plastic bag filled with Styrofoam containers. Indian food, from the scent of it.

“Hello,” John said. “I brought curry from that place you like. Did you have a good day?”

“It was long and agonizing waiting for you.”

John raised a brow as he placed the bag on the table.

“That’s rather maudlin for you.”

“It’s your fault for abandoning me for other people.”

“You mean patients in need of medical attention?”

“And old ladies looking to chat up the handsome doctor in the only socially acceptable way that they can.”

John laughed. There was the charming smile that Sherlock had been yearning for. He stood up and rushed to him like he’d wanted to do before, and grasped his shoulders and the back of his neck, leaning down to nuzzle his face. John wrapped his arms around him and met him eagerly.

“But I forgive you,” Sherlock murmured against his cheek. 

“You do? How magnanimous of you.”

“I try my best.”

John laughed again.

“As much as I would love to continue hugging you, I’m starved.” John leaned back, smirking mischievously. “And the sooner we eat, the sooner we can go up to bed.”

Sherlock immediately let go of John and grabbed the bag, taking out its contents. 

“Dinner it is.”

`````````````````````

As soon as John put down his fork, Sherlock did as well, too eager to get to the better part of their evening to care about his body’s need for nutrition. He’d consumed enough for his stomach to leave him alone for a while. But John remarked on the “coincidence” and made him continue eating until Sherlock was able to convincingly declare himself “full”. They couldn’t lie down right away without their stomachs cramping up, so they cuddled on the sofa for a bit while watching telly. Rather, John watched telly, for Sherlock tossed his legs on John’s lap and rested his temple on the top of John’s hair, arms wrapped around his shoulders. John reached up and rubbed his nape.

“Are you going to be doing this every night?” John asked. 

Sherlock raised his head, frowning down at him. 

“Why? You don’t like it?”

John’s face filled with panic.

“No, that’s not what I said. I did not say that. Just…” John rubbed Sherlock’s shins. “Stay there. I was just asking, that’s all. Since you did this yesterday. Just for future reference.”

Well, wasn’t John’s sputtering the sweetest thing? Sherlock’s apprehension melted away at John’s charming desire to keep Sherlock close.

“In that case,” Sherlock said, “for future reference, I fully intend to keep doing this.”

“Good. Good, good. Very good. Um…” 

John shut his mouth with an embarrassed grimace that might be one of the cutest things that Sherlock had ever seen. How had Sherlock gotten so lucky to be saved by this beautiful, fascinating man? Who cared what Mycroft thought? Chasing that burglar on the beach had absolutely been the right call. 

“I’m putting my head back down now,” Sherlock said, leaning back against John.

“Yeah, that’s good. Good.”

John pet Sherlock’s head. Sherlock burst out laughing. John groaned.

“Oh, lay off, please. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this. I’m rusty.”

“It’s been forever for me. Literally.”

“Oh. Right. I haven’t forgotten that. Slip of the tongue. Well, if you want to know my opinion, I think you’re doing a great job at this.”

“At what?”

“This. You know. The relationship.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” John plucked Sherlock’s right hand from his shoulder and kissed his knuckles. “I have no complaints.”

 _Give it time._ The complaints always came. Always. 

“You haven’t seen my flat yet,” Sherlock said, raising his head. 

John narrowed his eyes at him.

“Well, no. Why? What’s wrong with your flat?”

“Nothing. Except that you like neatness. My flat is not neat.”

John glanced around, frowning in confusion at the slightly disheveled odds and ends on the table.

“I’m not terribly neat. I mean, I like to keep things in order, but… You’re saying that you’re messy? I have noticed that. You do tend to leave things about randomly.”

“It’s not random. I have an order, too, just not the sort that you would notice. And that sounded like a complaint.”

John lowered his chin.

“Okay. Perhaps I do have one, small complaint.”

“You also don’t like when I start talking without saying hello.”

“Well, a hello is nice. The one you gave me when I got here today was very nice. I’m not going to complain about a missing hello here and there.”

“How about my venting the other day?”

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock frowned, resisting the urge to shift his feet in apprehension.

“Isn’t it supposed to be healthy for people in this sort of relationship to air their grievances?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call them grievances. And not like that, no. Here, let me move around a bit.” Lifting Sherlock’s legs, he folded his right leg under him so that he could face Sherlock, an earnest expression on his face. “Look, we’re not going to like everything about each other. We’re going to rub each other the wrong way sometimes. That’s inevitable. I’m sure there’s stuff that I do that you’re not keen on.”

Sherlock opened his mouth.

“You don’t have to tell me what they are,” John added quickly. “Unless it’s a problem, that is. Is it something that’s a problem?”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Just that you have questionable taste in television and you brush your teeth very loudly.”

John frowned quizzically. 

“Well, I don’t know how to brush them quietly. Just don’t listen to me brushing. And what do you mean, questionable taste?” He glanced at the telly, which was playing some dull, mind-numbing comedy. “What’s wrong with this?”

“It’s hardly intelligent.”

“I think it’s plenty intelligent. Maybe not your kind of intelligent.”

“It’s ordinary. Ordinary people living ordinary lives.”

“I hate to break it to you, but most people are ordinary.”

Sherlock groaned, tossing his head back.

“God, don’t remind me.”

“I’m ordinary,” John said, offense seeping into his voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You think I could be with someone who’s ordinary? You’re the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. You may not reach anywhere near my intellectual level, but you are smart. Smart enough to hook me. Did you think that your nature is the only thing that interests me about you? Don’t insult yourself by calling yourself ordinary. You are far from that.”

John stared. His eyes softened, flattered and taken aback. He rubbed the back of his neck and took Sherlock’s right hand in both of his, squeezing.

“Thanks for that compliment,” he said, a pleased smile on his face. “I’m still not happy about you dismissing everyone else like that, but… Although some are idiots. But that’s not the point. Anyway. If there is something that I’m doing that is a genuine problem—my teeth brushing doesn’t count—you can tell me. And, likewise, I’ll tell you. But don’t worry about these little things. I don’t mind if you vent every once in a while. Who doesn’t? You can just relax about that, okay?”

There were still so many irritating behaviors that John hadn’t seen, that Sherlock had been too cautious to reveal, but this was hardly an incentive to do so now. 

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “Can we go upstairs now?”

John smiled.

“Yeah, sure.” 

Sherlock hopped onto his feet and rushed upstairs as quickly as he could, which still wasn’t very fast at all, but John held his hand to make up for it. They stripped down to their pants again and lied down on the bed, this time with John in front while Sherlock curled himself around his back. He tried laying his right leg over John’s, but his injured ankle protested the position, so he had to put it back down on the mattress. Due to John’s smaller frame, Sherlock was able to tuck his head under his chin and nuzzle the top of it with his nose. John grabbed Sherlock’s right hand with both of his and massaged his fingers. John’s warm presence felt heavenly. Sherlock could lie here forever and be content. 

“I normally wouldn’t say this,” John said, “but I’m enjoying that you’re taller than me. This feels cozy. Having you wrapped around me like this.”

“I’m enjoying it, too. I love how small you are. It makes you even more adorable.”

“Small? I… I appreciate that you find me adorable, but I’ll have you know that I’m a very respectable size for my people. You’re the giant.”

“Giant? I’m only 1.8 meters tall.”

“Which makes you a giant to me. I’ve never met a selkie that tall. So I’m not short, I’ll have you know.”

“Shortness and tallness are relative terms.”

“I don’t care. Can you just not, please?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically as if he were making an enormous sacrifice by indulging John in this.

“Alright. I will refrain from pointing out an arbitrary fact about your stature relative to that of my people.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Fine, then. In exchange, I’ll refrain from pointing out that your stature is gigantic relative to that of my people.”

“That’s fair. Even if the idea of me being any sort of giant is ridiculous.”

“Well, you are.”

“You like it, though.”

“It does have certain advantages, I suppose.”

Sherlock rubbed his face in John’s hair, making him chuckle.

“Like that,” John said.

God, Sherlock was gong to miss this when he returned to London. When was he returning to London? It had to be soon. Wonderful evenings with John aside, he still needed work. He hadn’t conducted a single experiment in ages. His mind was starved for productive creativity other than that which he was able to achieve with his violin. And Mrs. Hudson’ being alone had continued to gnaw at him. Did Mrs. Hudson hate it when the building was totally empty for days on end? Sherlock certainly did. Every time that she left town to visit her sister he was crawling up the walls. Last time, she had been gone a for two weeks! He had told her that she wasn’t allowed to be gone for that long again as he had hugged her for far longer than usual. It hadn’t been an order. Of course not. Just an expression of how thoroughly unsatisfying life in that building was without her to bring tea and nag him into eating and complain about his experiments making the place look like “the lair of a mad scientist”. Sherlock had replied that he was a scientist, many (morons) considered him mad, and while the term “lair” was a bit much, it wasn’t wholly inaccurate. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Is something the matter?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

“How can you tell?”

“There’s this particular way in which you tense up when something’s bothering you. What is it?”

Sherlock sighed against John’s hair. He had been hoping to avoid this subject for a bit longer.

“Okay, now I’m really worried,” John said, looking over his shoulder.

“No, don’t. It’s nothing. I was just thinking about my return to London. Which will have to be soon.”

John frowned, crestfallen by the sudden news, which was exactly what Sherlock didn’t want. He turned around to face Sherlock, but kept his right hand twinned in his.

“I’ve never been gone for this long before,” Sherlock continued. “As I was talking to Mrs. Hudson, I realized that I may have left her alone for a little too long.”

Understanding dawned in John’s eyes. 

“Of course,” John said, tone saddened but also slightly self-recriminating. He hadn’t thought of this himself. At least Sherlock wasn’t the only one to miss the obvious. “She misses you. She’s all alone over there right now.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I had ignored how insistent her asking about when I was returning was. Stupid of me. She has been quieter about it since I told her that I’d be staying with you, but I need to go back soon.”

“Yeah.” John squeezed his hand, giving him a reassuring smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s okay. We knew it was coming. And you need to get back to work. You’ve been going stir-crazy. You haven’t said anything, but I can tell. So when are you leaving? Tomorrow? The day after?”

“Oh, no. Not that fast. Mrs. Hudson would kick me out again. She would probably drag me back to the station herself. She specifically told me to stay with you a little longer. That it would do me good.”

A delighted expression flashed above John’s disappointment.

“She did? Well. If she said that… Although, you really shouldn’t delay too long, but… If that’s what she wants.”

“Monday. That gives us the weekend. Then I’ll leave in the morning so you can drive me to the station.”

“Alright.”

John’s bittersweet smile matched the reluctance cloying inside Sherlock’s chest, but there was nothing to be done. Sherlock couldn’t stay here forever. Even if Mrs. Hudson wasn’t a consideration, Dover was far too tiny and safe for him to find any intellectual satisfaction. He needed to return to London, where interesting murders were rife and bountiful, and even the occasional burglary proved to be a fascinating puzzle worthy of his intellect. 

“By the way,” Sherlock said, smiling, eager to shift the subject in a less sorrowful direction. “Mrs. Hudson called you handsome.”

Gratification sparkled in John’s eyes. 

“Did she?”

“Yes. And she likes that you’re a doctor. I told you.”

“Can’t go wrong with dating a doctor.”

Sherlock’s smile fluttered.

“Not dating,” John added quickly, eyes wide. “Um, seeing? Being in a relationship with?”

“The last one’s better.” 

Sherlock smiled again. John was going to slip sometimes. This was all new to him. It was inevitable. 

“Now that I think about it,” Sherlock continued, “it’s quite handy being in a relationship with a doctor. Medical advice only a text message away. House calls whenever I want them.”

“You know, that’s not really how that’s supposed to work. You really should go to your GP. Or to a hospital.”

“Nah, I’d rather call you. You’re much gentler with me than most of the doctors I have to deal with.”

John narrowed his eyes.

“Might that have something to do with you being a bit of a difficult patient?”

“A bit.” Sherlock grinned. “I lead a precarious lifestyle. I may require daily consults.”

“By video chat, so I can take a good look at you.”

“Of course.”

They smiled at each other, a comfortable silence falling around them.

“We have a few days left before you leave,” John said. “We’ll just make the best of it. Besides, I’ll be visiting you in London five days after that, anyway. I haven’t been in ages. You’ll have to show me your favorite spots.”

“I warn you. Some of them involve murder.”

“Show them to me, anyway. You know I’m partial to a good story.”

“Done.”


	12. Chapter 12

The remaining days rushed by much too quickly for Sherlock’s liking. Rather, the nights did. The days crawled by in an agony of restless boredom as Sherlock did everything except literally climb the walls to distract himself from constantly checking the clock to know how soon John would be coming home. He read, wrote, composed, played the violin, limped around town, loitered by the sea shore, bought more books, stared at the celling, resisted the urge to smoke, and answered all of Mycroft’s annoying messages checking on the status of his relationship with, “Fine”. 

But the nights more than made up for having to put up with such mind-numbing dullness as they continued to explore their newfound connection in surprisingly thrilling domesticity. Their cuddling resumed from the moment that Sherlock greeted John at the door with a face nuzzle to when they separated at the end of the night to go sleep in their respective rooms. The possibility of sharing a bed for this purpose was broached, but neither of them had done so in forever (Sherlock not since he was a child with Mycroft on family trips) and were unaccustomed to another person jostling the mattress in the middle of the night. Sherlock’s sleep was far from regular and involved plenty of tossing, and he didn’t want John to be sleep-deprived the next day. 

Yet before they needed to separate, they indulged in the most delightful touching. They took turns spooning as they both reveled in being surrounded by each other’s warmth and caring arms. Sherlock’s heart beat more quickly every time they began. How had he not noticed before how starved he had been for this? Simple touch. Only there was nothing simple about the feeling of ease and comfort that soothed his always restless mind whenever John was near. He had been lonely for so long. Yes, Mrs. Hudson was there, and Lestrade, too, but not like Victor, and it hadn’t even been like this with him. Sherlock had wished it. God, had he wished it. But would Victor have been amenable to it, even if Sherlock had swallowed his anxiety and asked? Probably not. Depressing hour after hour of reading relationship posts in ace communities on the internet suggested that this wasn’t the most likely outcome. He had gotten lucky with John. Lucky that John hadn’t needed to wrap his head around a new, unfamiliar concept that clashed with a previous perspective of the world. Lucky that the lack of sex and kissing wasn’t a deal breaker for him. Lucky that John wasn’t fussy about what kind of affection Sherlock felt for him, as long as they both felt something. 

Sherlock dedicated a half hour to massaging John’s feet. Another half hour to his hands. He brushed his fingers through the softness of John’s hair while John pressed his face to Sherlock’s chest, lying half atop him in bed, a position that Sherlock had never considered wanting, yet it made him so happy now. He was still amazed by how much he yearned for these touches, how enjoyment thrilled through his him every time that John’s skin pressed against his own. Freshly warm from being bundled in a woolen jumper. Chilled from the cold air outside, which gave Sherlock the satisfaction of dispelling that chill with his fingers. The prolonged contact still overwhelmed him at times, but not in any way that urged him to disengage. So far from it.

John accused him of being a human shaped cat for how much Sherlock draped himself over him whenever he could. As if John didn’t do the same himself. The face nuzzles were his idea, as was standing still, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, soaking in the pleasant silence of each other’s breaths. And John had been the one to begin the massages, no longer hiding behind the excuse of checking Sherlock’s injured ankle to rub and stroke the healthy one, smiling as Sherlock wiggled his toes in encouragement. Nor was that the only one of Sherlock’s stims that John enjoyed. When Sherlock waved his fingers about while listening to music, John would regard him with a bemused smile on his face. Yet not as if Sherlock were a piece of entertainment or some nutter, like so many idiots did. He watched his fingers with the same joyful curiosity as when Sherlock explained his mental process during a case. As if he were seeing something beautiful that he was privileged to witness. 

It quickened Sherlock’s heart and stuttered his breath, and a flare of anxious uncertainty awakened inside him, for he recognized that desire in John’s eyes that he couldn’t experience himself. He sucked in a breath, telling his stupid mind to relax. John had promised him. This didn’t mean _that_. John wouldn’t change his mind so easily. He wouldn’t. His affection wasn’t a threat. Whatever thoughts occurred in his head that Sherlock didn’t wish to see would stay there. He had nothing to worry about. He was selling John short by fearing even for a second that he might. 

John’s brow would wrinkle sometimes when he noticed Sherlock’s momentary lapse, and he’d ask if Sherlock was okay, all the reassurance that Sherlock needed. 

“Of course,” Sherlock would say, smiling at him. When he could, he grabbed his violin and played him a tune to dispel the tension from the room and his memory. The sounds deepened the affection in John’s eyes, making it warmer, less unknowable, and Sherlock’s breath relaxed as he glided his bow over the strings. 

Thanks to a lucky chance of good weather, the weekends were dedicated to the outdoors. Once again, Sherlock read in a chair at the shore while John went for a swim, entertaining him with more of his acrobatics before going off on his own. Except this time when he returned, Sherlock didn’t continue sitting when John stretched out by his side. He lied down with him, ignoring the wet sand sticking to his clothes as he pressed himself to John and wrapped an arm around him. John grunted with surprised delight and shifted until they were face to face to give Sherlock wet, fuzzy nuzzles. Sherlock laughed. John’s whiskers tickled. Soon John settled, closing his eyes, long snout pressed to Sherlock’s forehead. They must have been quite the sight cuddled on the sand, a human wrapped around a seal, both in comfortable repose. 

Sherlock would never have imagined anything like this ever happening to him. How could he have? Selkies. Fairies. Ghosts. Creatures of legend. How short-sighted his perspective had been. He had never been so glad to be wrong.

````````````````````

Monday morning, Sherlock awoke to the mattress dipping as John climbed into bed with him. Outside, dawn barely began coloring the sky a deep blue. Sherlock’s train didn’t leave for another two hours. No need to get up yet. That’s why John came now. 

“Sorry for waking you,” John said, scooching forward until they almost touched, but he remained a couple of inches away.

“No bother,” Sherlock said, reaching behind him to grab John’s right arm and wrap it around his torso like a blanket. “I was barely sleeping, anyway.” 

He leaned back against John until they were pressed snuggly together, and let his eyes drift shut, sighing into the pillow. Their fingers twinned loosely. John’s warm breath gusted against Sherlock’s nape. They lied in silence, but neither of them slept. Why would they waste these last, precious minutes sleeping when they wouldn’t be able to indulge in this for another five days? 

The alarm in Sherlock’s phone blared. 

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath, reaching out to shut it off.

“My sentiments exactly,” John murmured. He curled his arm even more tightly around Sherlock’s middle. “Do we really have to get up now?”

“I suppose I could skip breakfast. But I don’t want you to.”

“I don’t want you to, either. I suppose we could just grab something at the station.”

“That food is rubbish.”

“Mm. Good point. There is a café not far from it that sells breakfast sandwiches. I’ve been a couple of times. It’s alright.”

“Let’s grab something there, then. How much extra time does that give us?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Excellent. I propose that we not move until then.”

“Good plan.”

The end of those twenty minutes arrived much too soon. With immense reluctance, they untangled themselves and got up. They lingered close to each other as they got ready to leave, which was a rushed affair since they had squeezed out as much bed time as they could. They stopped by the café, grabbed two egg sandwiches, and drove to the train station. There were only about ten minutes left before Sherlock’s train departed, so there was no need for John to park the car and accompany him to the platform, but he insisted.

“I’m sorry if you find this a little too romantic,” John said as they walked to the platform. “But I’ve always liked these scenes in movies. Could you indulge me this one time?”

Sherlock smiled. John’s pleading face was too sweet for words.

“I don’t mind at all. Why should couples get to have all the fun?”

Relief lightened John’s face, but only until they reached Sherlock’s train. They looked at the time on the digital display above the platform. Seven minutes left.

“You should get on,” John said, voice subdued, his saddened frown matching Sherlock’s own. 

“I suppose.” 

Inhaling deeply, Sherlock turned toward John and examined every detail of that face that had brought him so much surprising joy these last weeks. Just looking at him brought him comfort even now that his captivating eyes were shadowed with regret over Sherlock’s imminent departure. Three weeks they had shared together. Was it really too soon for this depth of feeling, like Mycroft had said? It did seem such a small number now. But Sherlock had never needed much time to determine when he’d met someone worthy of his attention. And John commanded far more than his attention.

“Come here,” John said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock returned his hug with equal fervor, burying his face into John’s shoulder before leaning back and pressing their foreheads together. In an unspoken agreement, they didn’t engage in a full nuzzle in public, and merely rested their faces together, nose to nose, cheek to cheek, eyes closed, silently enjoying each other’s soothing breath brushing their skin. 

“Five days isn’t that long,” John said when they resigned themselves to pulling away. “I already have my ticket.”

“I’ll wait for you at the station.”

“There’s no need. I can make my way on my own.”

“I’ll wait for you at the station.”

John smiled.

“Alright then. I’m looking forward to seeing you there.”

“Me, too.”

With one last squeeze of their shoulders, Sherlock grabbed his suitcase and climbed aboard the train. He couldn’t resist finding a window seat that faced the platform, even if only to watch John walk away back to the car park. He kept his eyes on the shrinking figure until John turned a corner around the ticket office and out of sight. With a sigh, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and pulled out his phone, texting Lestrade.

_I’m on my way back to London. Any interesting cases?_

He scrolled through the latest violent crime news while waiting for him to reply. 

_Glad you’re coming back. Nothing interesting by your high standards._

Sherlock groaned. Of course there wouldn’t be. Why would the universe be so merciful as to grant him an intellectual puzzle after three weeks of inaction? 

_Lower the standards, then. Anything at all?_

_There’s a B and E I could use help on, but I think you’d classify it as a 3._

_Fine. I’ll take it. I need something._

_Great. When does your train arrive?_

_9:46. I’ll head straight to Scotland Yard._

_Ok. How was your trip?_

The memory of John’s laugher flashed through his mind.

_Wonderful._

_Glad to hear that. I’ll see you later._

Sherlock switched to his Gallery and pulled up a picture that John had taken on his phone. Sherlock was not one for selfies, but John could be so persuasive sometimes, and he was mightily glad to have it now. They stood at the beach, the ocean behind them, lopsided and not looking particularly interesting in this quick shot, but that didn’t matter. The two of them were pressed side by side, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling. Warmth filled Sherlock’s chest, a grin swelling on his face. Five more days. Only five more days and he’d be with John again. John in his flat sitting on his sofa. Lying on his bed. Eating chips with him at the place that always gave him an extra portion. Walking in the city that filled Sherlock’s veins as if it were his own blood. 

He laughed with delight. It couldn’t come soon enough.

`````````````````

Sherlock knocked on Lestrade’s office door and waited, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Come in,” Lestrade called out.

Sherlock went inside and shut the door behind him. Lestrade sat at his desk behind his usual stack of papers. He hadn’t had a great night’s sleep. There were bags under his eyes, which were a tad glazed, and there was an ink stain on his right shirt cuff. Lestrade was usually careful not to stain his clothing with fresh ink. 

“Hello, Gregory,” Sherlock said with a wide grin, a feeling of well-being radiating through him. “Where’s my case?”

Lestrade frowned as if Sherlock had said something confusing.

“Uh, here,” he said, grabbing a file at the upper, right corner of his desk. “Since when do you call me Gregory?”

Leaving his suitcase and violin case by the door, Sherlock dove for the file and opened it, visually inhaling the specifics as quickly as he could. 

“Haven’t I done so before?” he asked, only half paying attention to Lestrade.

“No, you haven’t.”

“Huh. Well, I thought I’d start.”

This case really was a 3. So elementary. 

“Is there a particular reason why you’re calling me by my name now?” Lestrade asked, going around his desk to stand in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged.

“Just thought it’d be nice.”

“Someone didn’t point out that you never call me by my first name?”

“No.”

“Sherlock, did you even know my name before now?”

Sherlock frowned. This questioning was making his data collection quite troublesome. 

“Of course I did. I just didn’t use it.”

“But now you are, because you just feel like it.”

Sherlock lowered the file with a huff, fixing Lestrade with a sharp glare.

“Gregory, if you want me to help you with this case, it would be better if you shut up so that I can think.”

Annoyingly, Lestrade refused to be cowed by Sherlock’s glare and stood his ground, shoulders squared back.

“If you knew my name for the last five years, you would know that no one calls me Gregory. It’s Greg.”

Oops. 

Sherlock desperately fought the urge to look away and shuffle his feet.

“I knew that.”

Lestrade scoffed.

“Sure you did. Whatever. At least you finally know it, William Sherlock Scott.”

Sherlock winced. Lestrade knew his full name. Brilliant. That made Sherlock’s oversight look even worse. Why hadn’t Mrs. Hudson pointed out that Lestrade went by “Greg” when Sherlock had called him by his first name? It would have been so simple and prevented this little embarrassment. 

Never mind all that. For the first time in three weeks, he had a case to solve, and he was going to do it, no matter how annoying Lestrade proved to be. 

Which lasted all of six minutes, because this case really was absurdly basic. Honestly, how did the UK keep from descending into chaos with such a mediocre police force guarding it? 

“The gardener staged it all,” Sherlock said, handing the file to Lestrade. “Honestly, so simple. If that’s the best you’ve got, I’ll be heading out now.”

“What? Hang on.”

Sherlock stopped halfway to the door and turned back to Lestrade, who frowned at him, file held open in his hands, his expression the usual exasperation at Sherlock’s manner. 

“Is there something else?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade opened his mouth, then shut it, shaking his head.

“Nothing.” 

Disappointment crossed his face. Why disappointment? Was he embarrassed that the case had been so easy, after all? 

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

Closing the file, Lestrade shrugged.

“I just wanted to ask you how your trip went. I know I already asked you in my text, but it is the sort of thing friends do.”

Oh. Lestrade didn’t sound judgmental or angry, but the disappointment in his voice smarted in a way that it hadn’t done a few moments before. 

“Um…” Sherlock folded his arms behind his back to hide his fingers’ sudden fidgeting. “It was great. Well, not the attack part. Although there were good consequences to that part, so not even that was all bad.”

Lestrade stared at him, amazed that Sherlock was actually indulging him, which felt wrong. There was something wrong about all this, but Sherlock couldn’t… He couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Mrs. Hudson said that you became friends with the doctor who helped you after the attack.”

Friends. Hardly the right word. Sherlock opened his mouth to correct him, but stopped. He had never told Lestrade anything about his orientation, and chances were high that Lestrade would require plenty of explanation. Did he really want to get into all that here in his office, in the midst of Lestrade’s workday, with any of his subordinates able to interrupt at any moment? But he couldn’t just play along that he and John were “friends” and nothing else. 

“Can you come by my flat tonight?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade frowned, confused by Sherlock’s apparent subject change, but his brow soon smoothed out and he looked gratified by Sherlock’s invitation. 

“Sure, if nothing comes up. Why? What’s up?”

“I just want to catch up.” Sherlock smiled. It didn’t look forced, did it? It felt a little forced. “You’re right. That’s what friends do. We haven’t seen each other in a while. So we should, you know.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t buying it. Of course not. He did have some deductive abilities, as if Sherlock weren’t being obvious enough.

“There’s something going on,” Lestrade said. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock dropped his arms back to his sides, fingers going mad clasping and unclasping. “Just come by, will you? Look, I really do want to catch up on things. Specific things. But… things.”

Lestrade glanced between Sherlock’s face and his jerking fingers. His suspicion faded into alert curiosity and mild sympathy.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll come by.”

“Thank you. After seven. I’ll be eating dinner with Mrs. Hudson then.”

“How about eight?”

“That works. I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Grabbing his suitcase, Sherlock yanked the door open and left the office, hurrying down to the street to catch a cab. That had gotten far more involved than he’d wanted or expected. He had only been at Scotland Yard for a momentary diversion. Now he had plans to come out to Lestrade. 

Greg. He really should start thinking of him as Greg. Not that he was on first name terms with everyone on the very tiny list of people who knew that he was aroace. But Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson might have a point about his omission of Lestrade’s first name from his memory. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask how Lestrade’s—

_Greg. Damnit. It’s Greg!_

To ask how Greg’s month had gone. But they didn’t have the kind of relationship where they bothered with small talk and all that nonsense. Well, Lestrade did try to shove it down his throat every so often, annoyingly enough.

Although… Did asking how someone’s trip went count as small talk if they were more than a passing acquaintance? If the person asking genuinely cared about the answer, that must fall outside the parameters of small talk, since that was empty filler. Then again, friends often engaged in small talk, so was Les—Greg’s question still small talk? Either way, the intention was still the most important thing, and Sherlock hadn’t asked about him. But he never did. Greg wouldn’t find anything amiss in it. And so much of it was obvious just from looking at him. He and his spouse were still separated and he wasn’t having a good time of it. 

Oh. This was the sort of thing a friend would show sympathy over. Not that this was anything new. Greg and his wife had been separated for ages, so he didn’t require fresh condolences. Mrs. Hudson would probably tell him to say something, though. 

Well, he wasn’t Mrs. Hudson. 

Alright, he’d say something, but it would be awkward and unpleasant for everyone. At least this mental rigmarole served as a distraction during the cab drive, for only a minute after he arrived at that conclusion, they also parked in front of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock paid the driver and got out, suitcase and violin case in hand. 

The door knocker was straight. Mycroft was here. Christ, why did he have to be here? Hadn’t their last phone conversation been uncomfortable enough? It couldn’t be because it had been so very long since they’d seen each other. He had only kidnapped John three weeks ago. Cursing under his breath, Sherlock unlocked the door and went inside. Leaving his suitcase by the coat rack, he headed straight for 221A, whose door was already being opened by a smiling Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock,” she said in a gushing, cheerful tone. “I’m so glad to see you. I was wondering when you’d be getting home.”

Sherlock stepped into her outstretched arms, sinking happily into her affectionate hug, a smile growing on his face.

“Mycroft didn’t tell you? I’m surprised he hasn’t had me chipped by now.”

“It’s tempting, believe me.”

There he was, appearing at the threshold like an overgrown bat with lofty ideas of itself. Mycroft bore his usual smarmy expression, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he had his umbrella in hand despite having been here a while. He wasn’t about to leave, which meant that he clung to it in its capacity as a comfort item, his grip just a tad tighter than normal. The signs were so subtle that anyone else would have missed them, but not Sherlock. Mycroft was nervous. Uncertain. Sherlock hadn’t seen him like this in years. Had their phone conversation really shaken him up this badly? 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked him, sparing him none of his usual acerbity. 

The faintest smile of amusement raised the right corner of Mycroft’s lips. 

“Being reprimanded by your landlady, apparently. She had some choice words for me about how I met John.”

“That’s a rather creative way of saying you kidnapped him,” Mrs. Hudson said, shooting him a scolding look. “And after he helped your brother, too.”

“I told you to wait,” Sherlock said, “until I got back so that I could watch.”

Mrs. Hudson waved a hand, looking only slightly sorry.

“I know, but I couldn’t help it. You were taking too long.”

“Went straight to Scotland Yard, no doubt,” Mycroft said. 

“I knew you had me chipped,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock turned back to Mrs. Hudson, smiling.

“I’m very glad to see you, too. Thank you for giving my brother an earful, even if I missed the show. Do you have anything made? I’m starving.”

“Of course I do, dear. You don’t even have to ask.”

She led him inside her flat past Mycroft, who stepped to the side. Sherlock got the urge to stick his tongue out at him, but managed to smirk, instead. Strictly out of politeness, Mrs. Hudson offered Mycroft some food, as well, but Mycroft wisely declined, no doubt sensing that it would be weird for him to accept food that she had made specifically for Sherlock. Like all mums, Mrs. Hudson expressed love through feeding her charge, which was Sherlock. Most certainly not his annoying brother who only stopped by Baker Street to irritate him. Mycroft was envious of Sherlock’s relationship with Mrs. Hudson. No matter how many airs he put on about not caring about their estranged situation with their parents and not needing friends, he couldn’t disguise that little glimmer of yearning under his indifferent mask whenever Mrs. Hudson coddled Sherlock in front of him. And was it really necessary for him to arrive early and wait with Mrs. Hudson when one of his spies doubtlessly informed him the instant that Sherlock walked through the doors of Scotland Yard? 

Sherlock gloated in Mycroft’s face every moment that Mrs. Hudson showered him with loving attention. Mycroft really should stop frowning so much. He was going to get even more wrinkles than he already had. 

“How is John?” Mrs. Hudson asked, leaning eagerly on the table, chin resting in her hand. “He’s still coming on Saturday, isn’t he?”

“Of course he is. On the first train. He’s well. Very much looking forward to talking to you without me vetoing your conversation topics. Don’t worry. I promise to stay out of it this time.”

“What conversation topics were these?” Mycroft asked. 

“John and I commented about Sherlock a bit,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“You called me a handful,” Sherlock said, scowling.

“You are a handful,” Mycroft said. 

“Oh, forget all that,” Mrs. Hudson said, waving her hand. “I’m sure John doesn’t truly mind in the end.”

“I think he might,” Mycroft said. 

“How would you know?” Sherlock asked. “You weren’t there. Oh, no, wait. You were there. To kidnap him. That he most certainly did mind.”

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson both shot Mycroft equally sharp looks of disgust. Mrs. Hudson shook her head in that disappointed way that always made Sherlock feel like he was eight years old and had just broken a vase. Mycroft’s face pinched, but he didn’t have the decency to look the slightest bit contrite. 

“I apologized for that,” he said. “An apology that John accepted, so it’s in the past.”

“Three weeks ago is a rather recent past.”

“Oh, so now three weeks is a short amount of time, is it?”

“Boys,” Mrs. Hudson said, cutting off Sherlock’s retort. “I’d much rather you two reserved your rows for upstairs.”

“Fine, then,” Sherlock said. “Let’s keep talking about John.”

Sherlock filled the rest of the meal with selkie-free anecdotes that didn’t infringe on John’s privacy, which pleased Mrs. Hudson immensely. Her enthusiasm for John’s imminent arrival quenched and his meal finished, Sherlock headed upstairs to his own flat. Mrs. Hudson stayed downstairs to give him and Mycroft a chance to talk alone, which Mycroft very clearly wanted by showing up here at all. He grabbed his luggage before Sherlock got a chance to and carried it up while Sherlock trudged up behind him. He was able to put his weight on his right ankle to climb up the stairs now, but only at a slow pace, so he had to endure Mycroft staring at him from the top of the stairs while he did so. 

“I know you love looming over people like a vampire,” Sherlock said when he was halfway up, “but would you quit staring at me?”

Mycroft sighed dramatically, as if he were the one being inconvenienced here. 

“I’m not looming. I’m just waiting for you. The door is locked, you know.”

“Then use your bloody key.”

“The one you keep getting angry at me for having and keep stealing from my pocket?” 

Sherlock reached the top of the stairs.

“Only for you to return with yet another copy. You have an entire drawer full at your house, don’t you?”

Mycroft shrugged. 

“It pays to be prepared.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pushed past him and opened the door with his own, bloody key. He grabbed the suitcase from Mycroft and rolled it into his room. Mycroft stayed out in the sitting room, which was freshly cleaned, as expected. As much as Mrs. Hudson pretended to dig in her heels about not being Sherlock’s housekeeper, she just couldn’t help herself.

“So why exactly did you decide to grace me with this visit?” Sherlock asked. “It wasn’t to carry my things up the stairs.”

Mycroft really was so obvious with how he gripped his umbrella and tried so appallingly to affect an air of nonchalance as he stood with his left hand in his pocket, raising his chin the slightest bit. 

“I wanted to see how you’re doing,” he said, as mildly as if he were commenting on the weather, if he was the sort to go in for that kind of thing. 

Sherlock stretched out his arms.

“Well. You can see me now. How am I doing?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

“You’re sad at having to leave him. You wanted to stay longer, but duty to Mrs. Hudson brought you back. I didn’t need to see you to know that you were happy with John, but I’m glad to see it confirmed.”

“He’s coming on Saturday. We won’t be apart long.”

“Yes. Exchanging weekends.” Mycroft cast a dubious glance around the flat. “You might want to clean up a bit. John likes things neat.”

“I told him that I’m messy. He doesn’t mind.”

“Did you tell him about your liking for experimenting on human body parts in here?”

Sherlock paused. Would John mind that? He’d already had some specimens delivered so that he could get on with his experiments right away.

“He knows I conduct experiments and study the effects of wounds and foreign substances on the body, so it shouldn’t be surprising. It’s not going to scare him off.”

“You might still want to reconsider keeping those eyes in the microwave. Most people like to use it for heating food.”

Sherlock scowled. Damn it, maybe Mycroft was right. Mrs. Hudson had been quite shocked when she’d first seen his specimens, but surely John wasn’t so squeamish, was he? 

“I’ll move the eyes,” he said.

“And the fingers from the fridge.”

“No, I need the fingers. I can’t possibly be done with them before Saturday. And I’m keeping the eyes, too. I’ll move them somewhere less in the way.”

“Sherlock, you do realize how important this is? It’s the first time that John will be in your flat. Seeing how you live, not just hearing an edited version of it from you.”

“And you want me to make a good impression, is that it? I’m not going to clean up in here and make it look like a magazine spread. That would be as bad as putting on an act.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. But perhaps it might be wise that his first impression of your flat not include running into a jar of eyes while he’s looking for the milk.”

A harsh exhale huffed from Sherlock’s nose. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trapping his fingers so they wouldn’t flail around everywhere as he paced around the room. 

“You’re worried I’m going to scare him off,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed. 

“I do want your relationship to continue.”

“Yes, you want me to be happy. I get it. You think I haven’t given this any thought? I know what people think when they first walk in here. I’ll warn him about the specimens, alright? That way, he won’t be surprised. That wouldn’t turn him off me, anyway. He’s not petty like that. If he were, he wouldn’t be worth my time. But he’s not. The lack of sex might do it, but he’s not complaining about that.”

Sherlock dropped into his chair. Fuck, his ankle was killing him. He snatched his hands out of his pockets, unable to keep his fingers still anymore. He shouldn’t be biting his nails. He’d told himself to stop. They wound up horribly mangled every time, and he had to cut them even shorter, but he couldn’t manage to yank his fingers out of his mouth. Mycroft pulled up the desk chair and sat down across from him. 

“Has John shown any sign of being unhappy with the situation?”

When had Sherlock started rocking back and forth? He jerked his body to a stop. 

“No.” Sherlock frowned. “I don’t think so. No. He said he was fine just doing… You know. By himself.” Sherlock raised his left leg and folded it against his chest, hugging it. Usually, he’d raise both legs, but his right ankle was still not up to it. “So it’s fine. I’m not worried too much about the future.”

“You’re doing an awful lot of explaining for someone who isn’t.”

“I’m working past it, alright? John said he’s fine without sex. I trust him. So I’m not going to worry about that, so stop looking at me like that.”

Mycroft signed. Again. He seemed filled with an interminable supply of them today. 

“And can you stop doing that?” Sherlock said, waving his hand in the direction of Mycroft’s face. “I’m not going to be crushed by a nervous breakdown at any moment. John and I are doing great. The distance shouldn’t be a big problem. It’s annoying, but we’ll deal with it. John can’t leave the ocean and I can’t leave London. This is the best compromise that we can do, so it will have to work. Besides, it’s only been three weeks, as you’re so keen on reminding me. I don’t care how little time it’s been. More time isn’t likely to chance my mind, but maybe it might seem little to him. I don’t know. Certainly too soon to ask him to move. We could go to Dover on the weekends, or whatever coast he’d like. He hardly gets a chance to swim during the week, anyway. But it might still be too much time away.”

Hang on. Mycroft hadn’t spoken up in ages. Bugger it all. He was letting Sherlock work himself up into a strop so that he’d spill all the thoughts wiping around in his skull without hiding anything. 

“Care to comment on any of that?” Sherlock asked, an acid in his voice. 

Mycroft raised an amused brow.

“Oh, now you want me to comment?”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing, exactly?”

“Keeping mum so that I’ll keep talking and confess to all my worries.”

“I’m letting you vent, which you clearly need to do. Would you rather I left you alone so you can talk to your skull, instead?”

“Yes, immensely.”

“The skull isn’t going to comment, either.”

“Oh, who knows? With the right chemical cocktail, any trick of the imagination is possible.”

Mycroft’s face pinched, expression going from annoyed to concerned and borderline angry in a second.

“It’s a joke,” Sherlock said quickly. “God, I’m not actually going to do that. Would you stop worrying, please?”

God, he needed a cigarette. He’d been yearning for one since he got on the train, but John was so proud of him for quitting, so he couldn’t indulge now. Although John wasn’t here. He wouldn’t know if he just had one. Getting up, he sat on the sofa and dug under it for his Persian slippers.

“Leave the cigarettes alone,” Mycroft said. “What would John say?”

Sherlock glared at him. 

“Don’t you threaten me with that. You’re not John. You have no idea what he would say.”

Mycroft pulled out his phone and scrolled for a bit.

“I’m glad to see him doing so well,” he read. “I’d rather not have to give him the speech I give my patients. He wouldn’t like that.” Mycroft looked up. “You don’t want him to give you the speech, do you? I’m sure it’s very trite and condescending.”

Oh, for…

“What, are you going to snitch on me? You had a smoke this morning. Don’t deny it. I can smell it on your breath.”

“John’s not going to care if I’m smoking or not.”

Sherlock put the slipper down, scowling daggers at his intrusive brother. Why did he have to be so damn superior all the time? 

“Are you going to be alright here by yourself?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock frowned.

“Of course I am. I’ve always been here by myself. Besides, Mrs. Hudson is here, so I’m not completely alone. If this is a circuitous way of coaxing me to stay at your house, I’m afraid I must decline.”

Mycroft’s eyes and lips tightened the merest fraction.

“I know better than to try to get you to stay with me again. Besides, it has no effect on your behavior. If the worst you’re being tempted by is nicotine, I have nothing to worry about.”

“Precisely. You don’t. But if you’re so concerned about me languishing in solitude, it will please you to know that Greg will be joining me this evening. Yes,” Sherlock added at Mycroft’s subtle brow rise. “I know his name now.”

“I thought you might be irritated enough to look it up. What’s his middle name?”

Sherlock’s slid off his face. Middle name?

_At least you finally know it, William Sherlock Scott._

“Oh, who cares about a sodding middle name?”

“Sherlock is your middle name.”

“Oh, shut up. Why the hell did our parents put it second if that’s what they were going to call me? Besides, William and Scott are so generic. That’s not the point. The point is Greg is coming over so I won’t be alone. So stop fussing.”

“You invited him over?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock scratched at his right palm with his left thumbnail, glancing out the window at the grey sky.

“You’re going to come out to him.”

Sherlock turned to Mycroft, who was regarding him with silent surprise. 

“I don’t want him to think the wrong thing about me and John.”

“That’s good. I don’t have any reason to believe that he’ll be adverse to your announcement.”

“Neither do I.”

“So there’s no reason to be nervous, then.”

“I’m not nervous.”

God, Sherlock hated that condescending, “I know your emotions better than you” smile. 

“You couldn’t fool me with a lie even if you were really trying, and now you’re not even doing that. You are a little nervous. The only person you’ve come out to has been Mrs. Hudson. It will be fine.”

“And in the very unlikely case that it isn’t, you’ll have words with him?”

Mycroft titled his head in consideration, as if he hadn’t been doing so already. 

“I could. But I doubt I will have to.”

He stood up and buttoned his jacket.

“As much as I would like to continue this amiable conversation, I really must be getting to the office.”

“More like you’ve already dragged out of me all the information that you want.”

Mycroft went to get his coat from the rack beside the front door.

“You hardly tell me anything out of your own volition, so what else am I supposed to do? I was surprised when you told me that you had become partners with John.”

He was? Sure, Sherlock avoided telling him anything, but that was important news, too important not to tell Mycroft. They may not have the smoothest of relationships, but they were hardly estranged. Why wouldn’t Sherlock have told him? 

“Will you let me know how it goes with Lestrade?” Mycroft asked, turning back to him. Did he expect Sherlock not to?

“Yeah, alright,” Sherlock said, hostility completely vanished from his voice.

With a tight smile, Mycroft stepped out, shutting the door softly behind him. Sherlock rushed to the window, listening intently to every step that Mycroft took down the stairs, and watched him exit the building and get into the black car waiting for him by the pavement. The distance wasn’t that great, yet it was far enough, and, combined with the angle, it would be easy to confuse one emotion with another. A friendly smile could look like a sneer, for example. Or tiredness could look like sadness.


	13. Chapter 13

Greg arrived a few minutes after eight. Sherlock had finished eating dinner with Mrs. Hudson about twenty minutes before and had returned upstairs right after to distract himself with the experiment that he had been conducting earlier. Said distraction failed utterly as he kept glancing at his watch and scowling as the minute hand barely crawled along. With a frustrated huff, he tore himself away from the microscope, grabbed his phone, and put on a podcast about a nineteenth century murder. He stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, hands steepled to his chin, and tried his damnedest to focus on the details of the old case. 

The doorbell rang. Sherlock jerked, ignoring the podcast to listen for Mrs. Hudson opening the front door and letting Greg in. They exchanged a short greeting, the usual small talk, then Greg began coming upstairs. Sherlock turned off the podcast, but he remained lying down. He didn’t want Greg to know how expectantly he’d been waiting for him or make it seem like he was nervous, which he was not. Mycroft was wrong. As was Mrs. Hudson, when he told her. And John, who he’d exchanged a sadly short text conversation with earlier. He felt eager anticipation, not nerves. Greg knocked before stepping inside. Sherlock had left the door open a crack to indicate that he could come straight in. 

“Evening,” Greg said, smiling. “Already right back at it, from what I can smell.”

Did the experiments smell? Sherlock supposed they did. He was so accustomed to their scent that he hardly noticed anymore. Would John mind? This was the sort of thing people minded, wasn’t it? 

“Earth to Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked. When had Greg come to stand over him?

“I got distracted,” Sherlock said, sitting up. “That smell, is it too annoying?”

“It is a bit, yeah.”

Sherlock leaned forward on his elbows, rubbing his hands together.

“Mm. I must do something about it, then.”

“Huh. That’s a first. You’ve never cared about making your flat comfortable for guests.”

“Oh, I’m not doing it for you. I have someone else in mind.”

Greg stepped back.

“Right.”

Sherlock looked up, taking a good look at Greg for the first time since he’d come in. He was tired from his workday. The stain in his shirt cuff was almost gone. He must have noticed it and washed it off. And he looked decidedly annoyed and disappointed by Sherlock’s last comment. Why was everyone disappointed with him today? Granted, it had only been Mycroft and Greg just now, but it was very off-putting. Although what Sherlock had said had been a bit rude, now that he thought about it. But nothing that Greg wasn’t used to. Sherlock pursed his lips. Today was hard enough. Why did people have to keep making it even harder? 

“That came out wrong,” Sherlock said.

Greg turned back toward him, surprised.

“Was that an apology?” he asked, as if the thought of Sherlock doing so was inconceivable.

“I suppose.” Sherlock frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that? Surely I’ve apologized in your presence at some point before.”

Greg thought for a second.

“Maybe. I can’t remember it happening, though. What happened to you in Dover? You stayed for three weeks after the case was over. Then you come back suddenly calling me by my first name. You made friends with the doctor who helped you, and you clammed up when I asked about him and asked me to come here to catch up on specific things. What are these specific things?”

Sherlock’s hands squeezed together. Right. This was it. There was nothing to worry about. Greg wasn’t even straight himself, not that he’d ever been open about it, but it was obvious enough from how he didn’t discriminate in his ogling, even though he thought that he was doing a good job of dissembling with his colleagues. Greg sat down on the sofa beside him, not super close, but enough that Sherlock could see him leaning toward him from the corner of his eye.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Greg said. “About stuff. If there’s anything you’ve been keeping secret. I know we’re not best mates or anything, but I’m here for you, alright? I’m not going to reject you or anything. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

The right corner of Sherlock’s lips tugged up in a half smile. 

“You suspect what this is about, I take it?”

Greg rubbed the back of his neck.

“I have an idea. A guess.”

Sherlock tapped his fingertips together. 

“I did make myself rather obvious, didn’t I? Tell me. What is your guess?”

Greg looked down at the floor, looking amusingly put upon. He grasped his knees. The sight was doing a good job of reducing Sherlock’s nerves, as had his little speech. He’d known there was nothing to worry about.

“I don’t want to just assume,” Greg said, half meeting Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Come on. I always welcome your observations.”

Greg frowned at him.

“No, you don’t.”

“Not if they’re wrong.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I don’t want to get it wrong. Not if this is as important as I think it is.”

“Just tell me what you think. I promise I won’t be cross.”

Greg pressed his lips together, not looking remotely satisfied, but he gave in.

“I think you and John are in a relationship.”

Greg speaking the words out loud brought a smile to Sherlock’s face.

“Yes. Go on.”

“Uh, well. That’s all, really. I mean, I was surprised. I’ve never known you to be in a relationship before and you roll your eyes at romantic stuff. I was thinking you might be…” Greg shifted in his seat, looking even more uncomfortable. “I don’t want to assume.”

“Just say what you’re thinking. I won’t be offended.”

Greg paused another second, glancing at Sherlock’s face.

“I thought you might be asexual.”

Sherlock’s smile widened. Giddiness surged through him at the easy acceptance with which Greg said the word. 

“Correct again. You’re on a roll today, Greg.”

Greg’s brows rose in surprise.

“Oh. Okay. But then… But you’re still interested in relationships, then?”

“Not so much relationships as relationship.” Sherlock tapped his right thumb against his left. “This is my first. And not the sort that you’re thinking of.”

“Okay. What sort is it?”

“We’re not really labeling it, as we’re attracted to each other in different ways. John’s bi. It’s romantic on his side. Platonic on mine. I’m also aromantic. I’m attracted to him in other ways, too, but not that. Do you know what aromantic means?”

“I do. That makes sense.”

Sherlock grinned even wider and bounced his feet against the floor.

“Excellent. I’m impressed. You know a lot more than I gave you credit for. It’s a relief to not have to explain all this stuff. Not that I expected you to think I was some frigid weirdo.”

Sherlock’s voice hardened at the end there, as did Greg’s jaw, his eyes growing flinty with old anger at Anderson’s mumbled comment one of the many times that Sherlock had pissed him off. 

“I would never think that,” Greg said, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezing lightly, his gaze as earnest as it had ever been. “You know that, right?”

Sherlock shocked himself by the swell of emotion arising within him at that simple gesture. He nodded, biting his bottom lip.

“Yeah.”

With one more squeeze, Greg let go.

“So, uh…” he said. “You are into sex, then?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. I just don’t like that word. Frigid.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay. So you and John don’t—” Greg squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing. “Sorry, I should not have asked that.”

“We don’t have sex. I don’t want to. He respects that.” And Sherlock had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t continue respecting that. “We show affection in other ways. Hold hands. Cuddle. It works. It’s only been two weeks since we got together like this and three weeks since we even met, but it is working.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Really. You deserve to be happy.”

The giddy feeling in Sherlock’s chest intensified.

“Thank you.”

“So how are you guys going to handle the long distance bit? Dover isn’t too far for visits.”

“No. We’re gong to visit each other on alternating weekends, unless I have a case. Although I would like to coax John to come here in that case, regardless. I think he’d enjoy it. He’s always fascinated by my stories. I think he might be a quick study.”

“You want to bring him along on cases?”

Greg frowned uncertainty.

“Would that be a problem? He’s a medical doctor. Very smart. He could be useful.”

“Very smart? Should I expect another you, then?”

“Oh, no. Far from it. He’s not like me at all. He’s average. Well, a bit above average or he wouldn’t be interesting to me, but not unlike you. He also misses incredibly obvious details. Honestly, I have no idea how the rest of you get on.”

Greg raised a brow in that exasperated way of his whenever he found Sherlock particularly annoying. 

“Don’t tell him that,” he said. “People get dumped for less.”

“I already told him.”

Greg gaped in horrified shock.

“You what?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. He took it in stride. He pointed out how much more knowledgeable he is than me at certain important things.”

Admiration grew in Greg’s eyes. 

“Huh. I’m starting to like this guy.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Of course you are.”

“Hey, someone needs to check your ego every once in a while, else one day, your head is going to swell up like a balloon and you’re going to float out of this room.”

Sherlock scowled at Greg, disgusted by the ludicrous image.

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Please do me the favor of not boring John with your sad excuse for a sense of humor when he gets here. Does he get to come with me on cases or not?”

Greg’s awkward grimace wasn’t very encouraging. 

“Sherlock, mate, it’s hard enough letting you in. You can’t just bring whoever you want with you just because he’s a doctor.”

“You were being supportive a minute ago. Why don’t we get back to that?”

“I can’t just do things because you want something.”

“Fine.” Sherlock pulled out his phone. “I’ll get Mycroft to do it.”

Greg dropped his head in his hand.

“Stop. I’ll get him in. You don’t have to get Mycroft to twist my arm for bloody everything.”

Sherlock made a show of putting away his phone, smirking even harder at Greg’s annoyed eye roll. 

“Thank you so much, Greg. It’s very appreciated, even if you’re only caving because you’re afraid of my brother.”

Greg rolled his eyes. He always got so worked up whenever Sherlock mentioned how much more authority Mycroft had than him. It was hilarious.

“I’m not afraid of Mycroft.”

Sherlock adopted a faux, understanding expression. 

“Of course you’re not.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Sherlock laughed. 

“You’re too easy,” he said. “Mycroft isn’t as menacing as all that. He just likes putting on a show for the lesser mortals.”

“Yeah, you two have a lot in common.”

The hell had Greg just said? 

“Take that back right now.”

Why was Greg smiling? Stop smiling. This was not funny.

“You do the same thing and you know it,” Greg said, looking far too amused. “With all your dramatic revelations and complaining about how mediocre everyone else’s observational skills are and how you’re the only person with any intelligence in the room. And the costumes.”

“You can’t possibly object to the costumes. They’re for undercover work.”

“Security guards don’t pop their collars, Sherlock.”

Oh for… 

“Some might. You don’t know what every single guard in the world does.”

That had been one time. Sherlock had infiltrated an art gallery to catch a thief and was so used to popping the collar of his Belstaff that he had done the same to his uniform jacket without even thinking about it. It wasn’t like he’d looked out of place and made people remotely suspicious. Greg was making too much out of the situation. 

“You know,” Greg said, his amused smile softening. “I think this is the first real conversation that we’ve ever had. We always stick to work. Maybe a little small talk that you get out of as quick as you can.”

Sherlock rubbed his knee.

“I’m not really a fan of small talk,” he said, his annoyance abruptly banished by the awkward uncertainty that he’d suffered earlier in the cab.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed. It’s okay. I’ll try not to bother you with it.”

“Earlier, I should have asked how your month went. I could see that you’re still separated from your wife and that it had not gone well, so I didn’t see the point in asking you what I already knew, but I can see how that might have felt a bit one sided to you. So I’m asking now.”

Sherlock stared ahead as he spoke, unable to meet Greg’s eyes until he was done. When he did, it took a distressing amount of energy not to look away again, for Greg was gaping at him with such a surprised, touched expression that Sherlock almost bolted from the sofa to the opposite side of the room to get away from the cloying, honey feeling in his stomach. 

“Um, yeah. It’s been a crappy month.” 

Greg took a moment to gather his words together. The whole thing was so unbearably awkward. Sherlock shouldn’t have said anything. But, no. He needed to say it. Greg had accepted and supported him without a moment’s hesitation, like a friend. Yes, they were friends. Work friends, Sherlock had thought, of a sort. But Sherlock trusted him. He depended on him far more than he’d realized for cases, and now for emotional support. Greg never made fun of him. Well, not in a malicious manner. Any comment he occasionally made was the light-hearted sort used in amicable joking between friends. Greg had already considered them friends. Despite Sherlock’s ignorance of his first name or refusal to ask how he was. He always asked Sherlock how he was doing, because that was what friends did. It was a bit unfair now that he thought of it. More than just uneven. How had Greg not complained before? Had he complained before? Maybe Sherlock had deleted it or not paid attention. People were so hard to read sometimes. Especially when Sherlock wasn’t focusing on them. Greg depended on him to solve his cases when he and his detectives were too thick to manage it. Would Greg have put up with him for as long as he had if he hadn’t been so desperate to see justice done to keep calling him back?

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock jumped, startled. He turned to Greg, who held a hand up in surrender.

“Sorry,” Greg said. “You drifted off there. Are you okay?”

“Yes. I apologize. I got up early this morning. I’m just a little tired. What were you saying?”

“I can leave if you’re tired. We can catch up later.”

Greg started getting up. Sherlock placed a hand on his upper arm, arresting his movement.

“No, you can stay. I’m not that tired. Please, continue.”

Greg regarded him quizzically.

“Really? You don’t mind?”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Not at all.”

Greg studied his face for a moment longer, then his eyes lightened and his lips curled in a smile.

“Okay.”


	14. Chapter 14

The next Saturday, Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet on platform 12 at St Pancras Station, waiting for the 8:54 train to come in from Dover. He had arrived fifteen minutes early in his eagerness and kept checking the clock on the announcement board, willing time to go faster. John had tried to dissuade him from picking him up, stating that he could navigate the Tube perfectly well by himself (“I have been to London before, you know”), but Sherlock wouldn’t have it. He wasn’t going to waste precious moments with John just because he was too lazy to go to the station. And he wouldn’t be able to get anything done there, anyway. He’d be as restless and impatient there as he was here, unable to do a damn thing until John knocked on the door and graced him with his beautiful face, so why shouldn’t he be here? 

The last five days without his presence had been agony. Not that he’d expressed it like that when anyone asked, as he didn’t want to be accused of being melodramatic, but how else to describe the constant yearning for John’s touch, which couldn’t be satisfied no matter how long their video calls became? Had Baker Street always been this silent? Mrs. Hudson puttering around downstairs and popping in and out of his flat were familiar, welcome distractions. He found himself sitting on her sofa all of Thursday night watching rubbish telly while she taught him how to knit, simply because he couldn’t take another second of fixing up the spare bedroom upstairs while wondering if John would prefer blue bedsheets or green. Or if he really meant it when he told Sherlock not to alter anything about his flat just because Sherlock thought it might please him. Or whether he should move his telly so that he could put his second armchair in front of it in case John would like to sit there facing him. How was he going to manage another week of this? And another? And another?

The note beside John’s train on the announcement board changed from On Time to Arriving. Sherlock rushed to the end of the platform and craned his neck to the side, peering down the tracks. The train came into view, a small pinprick growing in the distance, followed swiftly by the sound of the engine slowing down before reaching the station. A grin broke across Sherlock’s face and he gave a little jump, excitement thrilling through his veins. Someone beside him looked at him funny, but sod them. Who cared what some random person thought? Once the train stopped, Sherlock rushed to one of the middle entrances, where John had texted that he was sitting. 

The instant that he appeared, Sherlock waved so that John would have no trouble spotting him. A smile widened on John’s face when he did so, and he hurried to meet him, raising his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders and tugging him down. But there was no need. Sherlock eagerly pressed his forehead against his and rubbed his nose against him. 

“I’m so glad to see you,” Sherlock drawled, stroking John’s nape, fingers slipping beneath his collar to soak up as much of John’s warmth as possible. 

“You saw me yesterday,” John said, no less enthusiastic as he touched Sherlock’s jaw. 

“It’s not the same.”

John sighed.

“No, it’s not. God, I missed you.”

“Me, too.” Sherlock leaned back, meeting John’s eyes. “Let’s get to Baker Street so I can greet you properly.”

John’s brows rose in eager anticipation.

“I like the sound of that. Lead on.”

They held hands for the entire cab drive, which proved to be the most touch that they would get for a while, as Mrs. Hudson was wafting for them the instant that they stepped through the front door. She had left her own open a crack to listen for them, and sprung out with a big smile on her face. Of course. Sherlock should have known that there was no way to sneak him past her. Yes, he supposed there was some sort of social rule about guests making all of their hosts’ acquaintance as soon as possible, and not after one of them had snuck said guest upstairs for a cuddle. But why was this one of the ones that Sherlock was obligated to follow? 

“Good morning, you two,” Mrs. Hudson said, meeting them at the bottom of the staircase. “John, it’s so good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” John said, smiling back and shaking her hand. “I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you some more. Sherlock promised not to cut us off this time.”

Why had Sherlock promised that, exactly?

“He promised me, too,” Mrs. Hudson said, with a warning glance Sherlock’s way. 

Sherlock pursed his lips, but didn’t bother protesting. He had already shot himself in the foot, and it was too late to get himself out of it. He extended a gracious arm toward Mrs. Hudson’s door with a wide grin of fake cheer on his face.

“By all means,” he said. “Be my guest. At least I don’t have to worry about you pulling out an album of my baby pictures, Mrs. Hudson. I need some tea.”

He pushed past them and went inside, finding the kettle steaming and ready on the stove. He poured himself a cup and turned to John and Mrs. Hudson, who were engaging in scintillating formalities of small talk, complete with complaining about the rain. This was England. What did they expect? Bright, sunny skies all year long? But he couldn’t hold onto his annoyance, not with John right in front of him, finally in London and getting to know Mrs. Hudson. 

“Tea, anyone?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” John said.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, looking pleased that Sherlock had offered, even though it was her tea. And he did pour her a cup sometimes. Although not that often, admittedly.

While no baby pictures were present, Mrs. Hudson did regale John with a large amount of anecdotes about her time knowing Sherlock, including the time when he came home covered in pig’s blood with the harpoon that he had been spearing the dead swine with to prove that it couldn’t be the murder weapon. Not the most flattering story, but John looked at him with more amusement than horror. If he were the type to be turned off by that sort of thing, he wouldn’t be here, after all. John, for his part, told his own edited version of Sherlock’s stay at his house. No mention of turning into a seal and playing in the ocean, of course. There was no reason to shatter Mrs. Hudson’s magic-free view of the universe.

The moment that John finished catching her up, Sherlock shot John a sharp, insistent look and jerked his head up. 

“I think Sherlock wants to go upstairs,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, standing up. “Very much so. I know I said I wouldn’t cut you off, but it has been a long week and I want some time alone with my partner.”

John’s face scrunched in a half-grimace. Why? At Sherlock’s tone? Mrs. Hudson was used to it. She knew he didn’t mean anything by it.

“Of course you do,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling fondly. See? Not offended at all. “I didn’t mean to keep you two for so long.”

“That’s alright, Mrs. Hudson,” John said, all charm and smiles as he stood up. “It’s been wonderful having the time to know you better. And Sherlock through your stories. I’d love to have another chat before I leave tomorrow.”

“Oh, there’s no rush. You two have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Yes, we do,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s hand and tugging him out of the sitting room. “Bye now.”

“Wasn’t that exit a little abrupt?” John whispered once they were out in the landing. 

“It’s fine. She’s used to me.” They began going up the stairs. “I held out for as long as I could, but the two of you kept gabbing like a couple of busybodies. I’ve been fantasizing about having you here all to myself for ages. I’m not waiting anymore.”

John’s disapproval vanished with a fond smile.

“I can’t argue with that.”

Sherlock’s enthusiasm tempered a little as he opened his door. He had resisted showing John the flat through a video call since John decided that he’d rather get his first impression once he was there in person. Perhaps that hadn’t been the best idea. It made too much of a fuss over the whole thing. Although maybe he should have organized a bit, for John’s neat nature showed in his eyes as he got a look at the sitting room and its scattered odds and ends.

“This is nice,” he said, smiling at the pride flags on the desk. “Very nice. It’s bigger than I was expecting.”

Sure, his lips were smiling, but his eyes were saying, _What’s with this ungodly clutter?_

“Not too messy?” Sherlock asked.

Alarm appeared on John’s face. 

“No,” he said, too quickly. “Well, a bit. You weren’t exaggerating when you said that your organizational skills are the opposite of mine.”

“I know where everything is. So it’s not not organized.”

John peered at the knife stabbed through the documents on the mantel.

“For example,” Sherlock said. “Those are the papers that most need my attention at the moment.”

John frowned at him. 

“Why the knife?”

“So that they don’t fly off when I open a window.”

“Can’t you just use something heavy as a paperweight?”

Sherlock shifted on his feet, hands in his pockets.

“Sure, but I like the knife better.”

“It cuts holes through the paper.”

Sherlock jiggled his right fingers.

“That doesn’t bother me.”

“Right.” John scrunched his brow for a second. “Sorry. I don’t mean to criticize. It’s your home. You can arrange it however you want, of course.” He paused upon seeing the skull.

“This is a real skull,” he said.

“Don’t worry. It’s no one I knew. I talk to it sometimes. I think aloud, as you know. It helps to have an audience, and Mrs. Hudson won’t always oblige me, so Yorick helps immensely.”

“Yorick?”

“Obviously.”

A smile jerked on John’s lips. Sherlock relaxed. That was one potential crisis averted. John began to move toward the kitchen. Sherlock yanked off his jacket. That part of the flat could wait until later. Much later. Until after Sherlock reminded John why he liked him so much. Both Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had been hounding him to get rid of his specimens and he hadn’t listened, but he was aware that certain things put normal people off the mood. John stopped midstep the moment that Sherlock draped his jacket over the back of an armchair, curiosity replaced with a far more exciting interest. 

“The rest of the tour can wait,” Sherlock said, unbuttoning his shirt. “The only room in this flat that should concern you for the moment, doctor, is my bedroom.”

An enticing grin grew on John’s face. 

“I like the sound of that,” he said, tugging off his own jumper.

Once they had stripped down to their pants, Sherlock took John’s hand and led him to his bedroom. John took a quick glance around the room, but his attention swiftly returned to Sherlock, where it belonged. Sherlock lied down first, scooching back to give John space to join him. They wrapped themselves around each other, legs twined, arms surrounding torsos. John tucked his head under Sherlock’s chin, face pressed comfortably to his chest. The warm gust of his breath drew a shiver of joy through Sherlock’s body. He shut his eyes, brushing his lips along the delightful softness of John’s hair. 

“Oh, I’ve missed this,” John hummed.

“Mm. Me, too. Not having you physically present has been agonizing. I propose that we not leave this room until tomorrow.”

“Didn’t you get us tickets for the symphony?”

Damn.

“Let’s skip it.” 

“We’re not skipping it. I’ve been looking forward to it. I haven’t seen a symphony in ages.”

Sherlock sighed in that melodramatic way that always made John laugh, as it did now.

“Very well. I shall make the sacrifice of sitting next to you without being able to cuddle you.”

“While listening to gorgeous renditions of Beethoven and Sibelius. Yes, it’s going to be so awful.”

“Torture.”

“I do actually want to see some of London while I’m here, you know. And we have to eat eventually.”

“Do we really?”

“Yes.” John raised his head and fixed him with his stern “I’m a doctor and you will listen to me” look. “We need to eat. You had breakfast, right”

“Yes, doctor. Mrs. Hudson makes me.”

A wrinkle crossed John’s brow.

“You don’t have to keep calling me doctor, you know. I tell you this stuff as your partner, not as a doctor.”

“I like it. It’s like a pet name. But I’ll stop if you want me to.”

John’s forehead smoothed out.

“Oh. A pet name. Well, if that’s the case, that’s not so bad.”

“It’s acceptable, then? Can I continue to call you ‘doctor’?”

A pleased smile was Sherlock’s answer. 

“Yeah.”

Sherlock grinned. John shifted up on the bed and nuzzled Sherlock’s face. Sherlock still thought of a cat every time that they did this, but that was hardly a bad thing. He grasped John’s nape, weaving his fingers through his hair as he brushed his cheek and nose against John’s face in long, languid motions. John pressed a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock hitched his left leg higher atop John’s, rubbing his calf with his toes. John stroked up his back in response, fingertips grazing atop his skin. Sherlock hummed, leaning into the touch, breath growing short at the delightful sensation. It danced through his body, bursts of dopamine vanishing the loneliness of this week, casting a feeling of contentment over his being. Sherlock’s right hand strayed over John’s chest.

He startled, gasping at the sensation beneath his palm.

“What is it?” John asked, pulling back, brow wrinkled in concern.

Sherlock mentally kicked himself. Embarrassment heated his cheeks. 

“Nothing. I just felt… I should have been expecting it, obviously.”

He kept his hand poised over John’s chest, not pressing too hard, just enough to feel his heart beating so close to his own skin.

“My heartbeat?” John asked. “That’s what surprised you?”

Sherlock’s face was burning red.

“It’s stupid. I realize that. I was thinking of something else. Just got caught up in the moment.”

“It’s okay.” John smiled and rubbed Sherlock’s jaw with his thumb. “It’s not stupid. You got caught up, like you said.” 

He placed his own hand over Sherlock’s heart, which was beating far too rapidly right now with all the mixed emotions careening through his system. John’s own heart was beating a little strongly, now that he thought of it. Beating in excitement. Excitement over being with Sherlock. 

“See?” John said, noticing Sherlock’s face lightening. “Nice, isn’t it?”

Sherlock sucked on his bottom lip, nodding. Nice didn’t even begin to cover it. Fascinating. Elating. Dizzying. But in a good way. Definitely in a good way. John kept gazing into his eyes, silent, his eyes so bright and blue and perfect. Sherlock could while away an afternoon making a study of his irises, weaving the cerulean and brown hues into a merry tune. The laugh lines at the corners of John’s eyes wrinkled with a gentle smile. Sherlock’s breath caught. He’d never held anyone’s gaze for this long before. He had wondered at the idea of something being so beautiful and alluring that it hurt to remain entrapped in it for long. He had found this seeming contradiction tested after playing his violin for too many pieces, delight becoming ecstasy becoming pain as exhaustion set in. The nervous, overwhelmed sensation afflicting his gut just now was alike, yet not at all. How could it both gladden him and hurt to look at John? It was too much. Too much of himself in his eyes, his face, his thundering heart which made John frown, concerned.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Your heart’s beating a little fast there.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock nodded, eager to dispel John’s worry. He blinked, looking away. John might misinterpret that. He met his eyes again. 

“I think this is all just… new. I’ve never looked into anyone’s eyes for this long.”

Understanding softened John’s face.

“Is it too much? Do you feel overwhelmed?”

“A bit.”

“Tell me that, then.” John raised his right hand to Sherlock’s cheek. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable. I wouldn’t describe it like that.”

“If you’re overwhelmed you’re at least a little uncomfortable.”

Sherlock looked away again, frowning at the pillow.

“I guess.”

“Don’t keep it to yourself in the future, alright?”

“Okay.” Sherlock lifted his hand from John’s chest to his right wrist, squeezing gently. “You also. I know there must be things.”

“Well, there are always things in every relationship. If you’re asking if I have complaints again, no. I can’t think of anything right now.”

“Except for the messy flat.”

“I’m not going to tell you to straighten out your flat. It’s your flat.”

Sherlock peered at John. 

“I will hold you to that.”

John frowned in confusion.

“Okay. Sure. I didn’t have a problem with the skull.”

“I appreciate that.”

Shifting down a bit on the bed, Sherlock tucked his head on John’s upper chest, letting his eyes drift shut as he inhaled a welcome gust of John’s unique scent. If they lied here for long enough, soon his bed would smell of John. What a marvelous thought. John cradled his head, rubbing soft circles onto his scalp. Silence drifted atop them once again. Sherlock’s heart still beat too wildly, but with the gentle rhythm of John’s breath pressing against his cheek, and the soothing touch of his hands, he soon calmed, allowing himself to enjoy the moment without freaking out about it. 

“Sherlock?” John murmured a long while later.

“Mm?”

“I really hate to break this up but I’m pretty hungry.”

Sherlock immediately pushed himself upright.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” he asked. “We must rectify this immediately.”

He glanced around. Right, his mobile was in the sitting room with his coat.

“I didn’t want to move. I figured my stomach could wait, but it’s a little much now. I can just grab a sandwich from the café downstairs if you’re not hungry.”

Sherlock stood up. 

“Your first meal in London isn’t going to be a sandwich,” he said. “I’m taking you out to a proper restaurant.”

“Again, I have been here before. But that would be lovely, thanks.”

They returned to the sitting room to get dressed. Fishing his mobile out of his coat, Sherlock texted Angelo to reserve him a table for two, then he pulled up the restaurant website for the menu. 

“Here,” he said, handing John the phone. “Pick whatever you like. It’s on the house. I’ll text the owner our order so they’ll have it ready as soon as possible.”

John placed the phone beside him on the sofa as he fastened his remaining shoe. 

“On the house?” he asked, peering curiously at Sherlock. “How’d you manage that?” 

“I got Angelo off a murder charge. He was burgling on the other side of London at the time of the murder. After he got out of prison, having received a much shorter sentence than he would have if I hadn’t taken his case, he opened up this restaurant and has been giving me free meals ever since. Hardly necessary. He paid me my fee, but I’m not going to complain. Clients like giving me free things.”

Sherlock grinned at John, who smiled back before turning to the mobile. 

“Like Mrs. Hudson renting this flat to you practically for free?” 

“Oh, it’s hardly free. But yes, her discount is very generous. I can also get us extra large portions of chips at a place not far from here. It’s delicious. And free plumbing, though that is less likely to interest you.”

They grabbed a cab to Angelo’s, where they were seated by the window with an unnecessary, small candle for ambiance. Angelo kept referring to John as his date, but Sherlock was having too good a day to be bothered by incorrect nomenclature. They had a lovely meal, followed by an equally lovely walk down Soho and into St James’s Park. They didn’t return to the flat until after five thirty so that John could change into nicer clothes for the symphony. Sherlock, of course, was already properly dressed in a suit.

“Do you ever wear anything else out?” John asked him after he returned downstairs from what Sherlock was already thinking of as his room. He wore black oxfords, charcoal grey slacks, and an ever present jumper, olive green this time. Stylish, yet adorable, as always. Sherlock indulged in the sight for a moment before answering.

“Only when I’m undercover. All other clothes have always felt like costumes on me.”

“Well, I can’t say I don’t appreciate the visual.”

Sherlock returned his little smile with a wider one of his own.

“Same.”

Sherlock would never get tired of seeing John look down shyly like that, pretty smile widening, a faint blush turning his ears pink. John stepped forward and pressed his cheek to Sherlock’s for a moment.

“I’m just going to grab a glass of water,” he said, turning toward the kitchen. “Then we can go.”

Wait. The kitchen. The fingers. 

“I can grab it for you,” Sherlock said, rushing after him, but John beat him to the entrance. 

John shot him an amused glance.

“I love how you’re being a good host and all, but I can get myself a glass of water.”

“You don’t know where the glasses are.”

John stared blankly at the drawers above the counter. 

“That’s true. But I need to learn where everything is, don’t I? So where are they?”

Sherlock sighed. Of course he needed to know. The idea was for him to become as intimately acquainted with the layout of his flat as Sherlock was with his house.

“That’s a bit overdramatic for just glasses,” John said, peering at him in confusion. “Is there something in here you don’t want me to see?” 

“I don’t know anymore. I didn’t think anything of it and you said not to change anything in the flat just for you, but Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson got into my head, and now I don’t know whether you’re going to freak out or not.”

“Freak out? What are you keeping in your kitchen that might make me freak out?”

Damned if he did. Damned if he didn’t. Sherlock opened the fridge door and stepped back so that John could see the bag of thumbs in the vegetable tray. 

“There are also some eyes on the table,” Sherlock said, scratching behind his ear as John’s eyes opened wide in mute horror.

“Human eyes?” he asked, voice strangled in shock.

“Of course human eyes. I need to know the effect of different toxins on the human body. I did tell you that I conduct experiments with human specimens.”

“Uh, yeah, but I expected that you did those particular ones at Barts, not at home. Are you legally allowed to have these here?”

“It’s fine. Greg is well aware. Do you mind? It looks like you mind.”

John scrunched his face in the manner of someone who desperately doesn’t want to say what they actually want to say. Oh, great. Mycroft had been right. Why did he have to suffer Mycroft being right? 

“I did tell you not to change anything in the flat for me.”

“Yes.”

“I meant that.”

The queasy look on John’s face screamed exactly the opposite.

Sherlock groaned.

“You want me to get rid of the fingers, don’t you?”

John raised a finger.

“No. I didn’t say that. Just… Can’t you keep them in a separate fridge? A small fridge dedicated just for specimens?”

“What for? There’s plenty of space in this one. I don’t need another fridge taking up space.”

“But think of the hygiene. They’re right next to a takeaway box.”

“In different compartments. Look, I’ll put the box on a higher shelf.” Sherlock did so. Why did John look even more annoyed by that? “What? I’ve never gotten sick eating any of the food in here. I suppose you want me to take the eyes out of the microwave, too?”

John’s eyes boggled.

“You keep eyes in the microwave?”

“It’s fine. The jar is sealed.”

John dropped his head into his hands, groaning. Sherlock pressed his lips together and closed the fridge door. Stupid of him not to believe that this would be a problem. Now John wouldn’t be comfortable being here. 

“I’ll make sure that there aren’t any body parts the next time you’re here,” he said, looking down at the floor. 

John turned him and shook his head.

“No. Sherlock, I really did mean it. This is your flat. I have no right to dictate what you can have here. If the law and Mrs. Hudson don’t have a problem with it…”

“Who says that she doesn’t? She hates it. The only thing she’s willing to do in here is make tea. But it’s fine. You’re only here for days at a stretch. I’m not gong to hole up in here conducting experiments when you’re here, anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. There’s no need to look at me with those puppy eyes.”

John’s frown intensified in confusion, growing even more adorable, then a grin grew on his face.

“You like my puppy eyes, do you?” he said.

Sherlock groaned.

“Now you’re doing it on purpose. It’s so much worse.”

“Hey, you’re the one who brought it up. You really don’t have to get rid of anything.”

“But you want me to.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely.”

“Then it’s done. Now drink your water and lets go or we’re going to be late.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” 

There was no more talk of eyes, fingers, or any other disembodied human parts for the rest of the night. Disagreements over what constituted basic hygiene were replaced by the sweet delicacy and harmony of Beethoven’s 7th symphony in the glorious Albert Hall. Sherlock’s fingers twirled on his lap the entire time to the tune of the strings. But, for the first time, a good portion of his enjoyment was derived from sneaking looks at the charmed delight in John’s face and those instances when their eyes met, fervent even in the dim light. Happiness trilled through Sherlock every time. After intermission, John reached for his left hand before he could begin stiming, but Sherlock didn’t begrudge it. Not at all. To say that he was content making do with moving his right hand while holding fast to John’s warm touch with his left would be putting it far too mildly. 

The gorgeous musical outing inspired them both to engage in more affectionate touches when they got home. They dropped right back into Sherlock’s bed, shirts only half off shoulders as they hit the mattress. John proceeded to rub his nose all over Sherlock’s face and neck like an eager puppy while Sherlock lied on his back. He wasn’t sure how John would feel about the puppy comparison, but it was too late to get it out of his head now. Besides, John did have a puppy face. Quite a pretty one. He giggled as John tickled the juncture of his neck and shoulder, returning the favor by brushing his hands through his hair and digging his fingertips along John’s back as far as he could reach in long, slow strokes. At one point, John lied down atop him, face tucked into Sherlock’s neck, humming happily as Sherlock massaged him. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath of pleasure as the full weight of his body pressed against him, compressing his chest, providing the most delicious pressure stim. When John tried to move some time later, Sherlock spoke quickly.

“Stay right where you are. Unless you really want to move, that is.”

John stopped moving, but looked up at him in curiosity. 

“Is there a particular reason why?” 

“Pressure stim. It’s nice.”

An intrigued grin appeared on John’s face.

“Oh, really? Do you enjoy pressure anywhere else?”

“My hands. My wrists. Most places, really.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s right elbow and tugged his arm toward him, sliding his hands down to Sherlock’s own. Holding it in both hands, he squeezed, gently at first, then harder. Sherlock gasped. John loosened his hold immediately.

“Is it too much?” he asked, concerned.

“No. That was a happy breath. Please go on.”

“Okay.”

John renewed the pressure. Sherlock laid his head back, eyes sliding shut, letting the sensations wash over him in pleasant waves.

“How does it feel when I do this?” John asked. 

“Nice.” When had Sherlock’s voice gotten this soft and drowsy? “Safe.”

“Safe? Because it’s me or just the pressure?”

“Both.”

“Huh. Interesting. You don’t like being constrained in your life, but you enjoy this. Like a high powered CEO who likes being submissive with a dominatrix.”

The hell had John just compared him to?

“Sorry,” John said at Sherlock’s displeased frown. “Thinking out loud.”

“I just like the feeling. Don’t read things into it.”

“Yeah. Okay. Sorry again.”

John squeezed higher up Sherlock’s arm and dropped a kiss on his hand in apology. Sherlock peered at him, narrow-eyed, for a moment longer, then laid his head back down, letting it go. It was rather difficult to stay annoyed at John when he was doing such delicious things to him. 

When the pleasure of the sensation began to wear off from overexposure, Sherlock brushed his hand through John’s hair, murmuring,

“Your turn now. Do you want anything?”

John flashed an eager smile at him.

“Lot’s of things, but I’ve had the urge to have you wrapped around me for the past few minutes.”

Sherlock smiled back. 

“Tit for tat.”

“Yeah. Tit for tat.”

John slid off him and lied on his side, back to Sherlock, who pressed himself behind him and draped his right arm over his torso. John grabbed it, wrapping it more securely. He did the same with Sherlock’s right leg. Sherlock quietly let John arrange him however he pleased until they were lying still, John’s head tucked under his chin, limbs encasing him in a secure cocoon, John’s fingers twined in his. 

“I might fall asleep like this,” John murmured. “Wake me up if I do.”

Sherlock was about to object, but stopped himself. He wasn’t quite ready to share his bed for sleep yet. Not overnight sleep, anyway. 

“Okay,” he said instead.

Did John mind not sleeping in the same bed with him? If he did, not enough to say, so Sherlock should take that as a “no” and quit fussing about it like Mrs. Hudson had told him to. He could hear her kindly, yet firm, voice now.

_Don’t look for problems where there aren’t any. If he really minds something, he’ll tell you._

Bowing to her superior wisdom in an area that she actually knew more than him about, Sherlock told his mind to shut up and enjoyed the moment.


	15. Chapter 15

The next morning, Sherlock dove straight from the bathroom to his violin, ignoring his stomach’s pesky demand for food in favor of his favorite Mozart concerto. He released the joy thrumming in his blood in the form of a melodious harmony that vibrated in the air and his body as surely as if the violin were a part of himself. John descended the staircase halfway through, eyes soft with latent sleepiness and hair ruffled from the pillow, a warm smile on his face. Sherlock grinned and glanced at him now and again, happiness swelling to a fever pitch at the fond fascination in John’s eyes. When Sherlock lowered his bow, his skill was rewarded with an enthusiastic hug and face nuzzle. John even pressed little kisses on his jaw. 

Breakfast followed downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s “non-toxic” kitchen, as she called it. John couldn’t help himself from agreeing before casting Sherlock an awkward glance and an apologetic shrug.

“Well, it isn’t very salubrious,” he said despite that.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and ignored them both. 

`````````````````````

Greg was almost as excited as Mrs. Hudson to meet John. After all the fuss that Sherlock had made about coming out to him and declaring John to be his partner, and how supportive Greg had been, Sherlock couldn’t well tell him to bugger off and wait a couple of more weeks. He didn’t want to, actually. The visit probably wouldn’t even take that long. An hour, maybe, then he’d have John to himself again. Although, if he was quite honest with himself, which he often tried not to be, he was a bit excited about John meeting his friend. His proper friend. That’s what Greg was. Not just a police liaison who popped by on occasion and was nice to him out of need and pity. Greg was his friend. What a thrilling thing that was to think about. 

His friend showed up a little after 2:30. John insisted that they be presentable and not look like they had just rolled out of bed, hair sticking up and clothes wrinkly. The temperature had taken a dip, making it more comfortable to cuddle with pajamas on instead of just pants.

“It’s just Greg,” Sherlock muttered as he lounged on the bed while John fastidiously tugged at his jumper. “He’s seen me much more casual than this.”

John stopped moving, fingers on his shoelaces, and turned to Sherlock, frowning in confusion as he looked him over.

“More casual than pajamas?”

The rising pitch in his voice telegraphed his suspicion.

“Not naked,” Sherlock said, snorting. “In a bath towel. He has the most wretched timing sometimes.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

Something like relief sounded in John’s voice as he looked back down at his shoes. Frowning with uncertainty, Sherlock sat up on the bed, scooching closer to him. 

“Would it be a problem if he had seen me naked?” he asked. “I don’t see why it should be for you.”

John looked up again, smiling reassuringly.

“Of course it’s not a problem. I was just surprised. If he had seen you naked, that is. Although it could have been an accident, this theoretical situation. I just assumed that you weren’t comfortable being naked in front of anyone.” He frowned. “Now that I think about it, I shouldn’t have just assumed that. How do you feel about it? Other than for cuddling, that is?”

Sherlock hesitated. John might feel slighted by his answer.

“Customarily, I don’t mind people seeing me naked. But it…” Swallowing, Sherlock looked down, picking at the blanket in front of his crossed legs. “It gets complicated when I think that they’re… Well, if they’re…”

John’s hands closed around Sherlock’s own. Warm, caring eyes greeted Sherlock when he dared to look up.

“It’s alright,” John said. “There’s no need to explain. I get it. Don’t worry. I’m not going to be offended or hurt or anything if you’re never comfortable being naked with me.”

John pressed his forehead against his, closing his eyes. A relieved breath shuddered out of Sherlock’s chest and he relaxed into John’s hold, smiling. 

Greg rang the doorbell a little after 1pm. Mrs. Hudson answered the door so that Sherlock wouldn’t have to go down the stairs unnecessarily. Sherlock rushed to open his own flat door and called down to Greg.

“You’re late.”

Both Greg and Mrs. Hudson looked up at Sherlock as if he were the one being exasperating. Well, maybe, but he hated the ridiculous nerves of introducing his partner to people and wanted to get it over with. 

“Only by a few minutes,” Greg said, coming up the stairs. “And you’re late all the time.” 

Sherlock pinched his lips.

“Fine,” he said. “Just get up here.”

“Sherlock,” John chided behind him. 

Sherlock groaned under his breath. 

“Please,” he added.

“That didn’t sound sarcastic at all,” Greg said.

“Sarcastic?” Sherlock sputtered. “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I just…” 

He groaned audibly this time.

“It’s alright, mate,” Greg said, smiling as he reached the top of the stairs. “I know how impatient you are.”

A sudden frown came over his face, the smile fading into surprise and curious anticipation.

“Greg?” Sherlock asked. “What is it?”

But Greg wasn’t looking at him. He was peering over his shoulder at John, who had a similar look of surprise as he looked at Greg. 

“What’s going on?” Sherlock asked. “Why are you looking at each other like that?” 

They both started and turned to him with awkward expressions, Greg’s more uncomfortable than John’s. John sighed, looking resigned.

“It’s okay,” he told Greg. “There’s no point trying to lie about it now. Sherlock knows about me, anyway. I told him all about it.”

“I know what about you?” Sherlock said, getting more agitated by the second. “Do you two know each other?”

“No,” Greg said, nudging Sherlock inside the flat and shutting the door. “We’ve never met.” 

There was a nervous tremor in his voice. He had gone a little pale, too. What could Greg possibly have to be nervous about? The only thing that John had told him that required any secrecy was about his family and being a selkie, but how could either of these things have any bearing on their reaction to each other?

God, he was being insufferably slow. 

“Are you a selkie, too?” Sherlock asked Greg, peering closely at his face, not that there were any signs to see, anyway, except for the way that Greg’s eyes widened in shock and alarm. He and John must have recognized each other by scent. John’s sense of smell wasn’t as acute in his human form as in his seal one, but it was still remarkably impressive. 

“Oh, stop gawping at me like that,” Sherlock said. “I’m not going to drag you to Mycroft so that he can lock you up in a government facility and experiment on you. You can tell me.”

John stepped between them, looking reassuringly at Greg.

“Mycroft wouldn’t do that, anyway. He knows that I’m a selkie, too.”

“He does?” Greg asked, eyes boggling. “How the devil did that happen?”

“So you are a selkie!” Sherlock crowed in triumph.

“What?” Greg turned back to him. “No. I’m a werewolf.”

Greg’s eyes widened again at his own admission.

“A werewolf.” Sherlock grinned, murmuring the words in delight. “Fascinating.”

“Not the rabid, killing kind,” Greg said quickly. “That’s all a load of bollocks.”

“Of course. You’re not the type. John filled me in on all the myths, but he wasn’t sure about some details. You don’t require a moon to transform, yes? Full or otherwise?”

“No. But I’m not going to transform for you now. I’m not a show dog. And cut that out.”

Greg stepped back away from Sherlock, who was inches from his face, and pulled the open edges of his coat tighter around him, as if to block Sherlock’s gaze or to protect himself, but his apprehension was lifting in favor of his usual annoyance with half the things that Sherlock did. Finally. He didn’t honestly think that Sherlock was going to hurt him, did he?

“Are there other werewolves in Scotland Yard?” Sherlock asked. “Please tell me that Anderson isn’t one. There can’t possibly be anything about that man that is remotely interesting.”

“Anderson is human. But I’m not telling you who isn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t do that,” John said. “It’s the same as outing someone.”

“Oh. I see. Understandable. Forget I asked that.”

“It’s okay,” Greg said. His jumpiness seemed to be going down. He finally tugged off his coat and hung it on the coat rack, limbs only slightly hesitant and shaky. “I am glad that you’re not freaking out,” he continued. “I hadn’t planned on ever telling you. I counted on your skepticism of anything remotely supernatural keeping you from suspecting it.”

“I’m afraid I got rid of that skepticism,” John said.

“You’re the seal that saved Sherlock on the beach,” Lestrade said. “I thought it might be one of us. An ordinary seal wouldn’t do that, would it?”

“Not really, no.”

“John transformed in front of me,” Sherlock said. “I admit that I was surprised by it.”

John snorted. 

“You thought you were hallucinating,” he said.

Sherlock bristled.

“A seal turned into a man in front of me. What else was I supposed to think?”

“That maybe the world isn’t as clear-cut and plain as you think it is,” Greg said, insufferable amusement on his face.

“Oh, not you, too. I liked it better when you were freaking out. I will not apologize for viewing the world according to logical, scientific principles. Which you could help me with by donating a small sample of blood.”

John groaned.

“God. Not this again. I’m not giving you my blood.”

“I was asking Greg.”

“I’m not giving you my blood, either,” Greg said. 

“Oh, come on. Why not? Is there some rule against giving humans your blood?”

“No. I just don’t want to. It’s weird.”

“It is weird,” John said, rubbing Sherlock’s sagging shoulder. “No lab experimentation, remember?”

“But it’s not. Only technically. It’s not like... I thought that only applied to Mycroft.”

“Nope. All Holmeses are included in this condition.”

“How exactly did Mycroft get involved in this?” Greg asked. 

He crossed his arms over his chest, gaze guarded and uncertain. Why? Sherlock wouldn’t let Mycroft lock him up. He must know that.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock asked.

Greg glanced knowingly at John.

“He kidnapped you,” he said.

John nodded.

“That he did. A bit overbearing, isn’t he?”

Greg rolled his eyes.

“God, you have no idea. His picture is by the entry in the dictionary. I’m Greg, by the way.”

He extended his hand for John to shake, which he did. 

“John. This isn’t how I expected this to go, but it’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

Right. The significance of John meeting Greg had completely slipped Sherlock’s mind in all the excitement. He had scripted introducing them in his head. 

_John, this is Greg, my friend. Greg, this is John, my partner._

Not exactly elaborate, but it worked. It made him a little sad that he wouldn’t get to say it anymore. But Greg being a werewolf was so much better, even though he proved as annoying as John over having his blood examined. Sherlock just wanted to look at it. That was all. What did they think that he was going to do with it? Use it to make some nefarious toxin? Clone them? Create a human/selkie/werewolf hybrid? 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock started at the sound of John’s voice.

“Mm? Sorry, I got distracted for a moment.”

“Do we even want to know what by?” Greg asked, dubiously raised brows indicating that he didn’t actually want an answer. 

“Never mind. So, you two have met. Wonderful. Ordinarily, that’s all that I’d be interested in right now, but can we pause that and go back to why you’re scared of Mycroft finding out?”

Sherlock directed this last at Greg, who puffed up in indignation like an angry crow.

“I’m not afraid of Mycroft,” he said.

“Then why are so preoccupied over him knowing about John?”

“Because you know how he is. It’s not really a safe thing to tell him, is it?”

Greg just could not help glancing away, or shifting his feet the tiniest bit, his shoulders tense. Worry and embarrassment shone in his eyes. 

“I don’t know why you bother trying to lie to me,” Sherlock said. “It never works.”

Greg sighed, passing a weary hand over his face. Beside them, John uttered a soft, “oh,” eyes wide in shock. Sherlock turned razor sharp eyes at him. John turned to him, eyes widening in realization at what he’d just done and shook his head, squeezing his lips.

“You know what it is,” Sherlock said, amazed. “You perceive something I can’t. Is it through smell? Can you smell a hormonal difference in Greg from a moment ago?”

“I don’t know anything,” John protested, looking at Greg with chagrin. “Besides, it’s none of our business.”

“Forget it, John,” Greg said, releasing a tired sigh. “He’s not going to let up. You might as well try to take a piece of meat from a dog. I’m amazed that we managed to keep it a secret for this long, really.” Straightening his back, Greg looked Sherlock square in the eyes. “Mycroft and I were together.”

Everything inside Sherlock froze, his mind going blank.

“It started a couple of months after we met,” Greg continued. “If I can even say met. He snatched me off the street in one of those of those black cars. I must have been mental to be attracted to him at all after that. It was supposed to be casual. Mycroft explained that he’s not into romance, but we wound up in a relationship, anyway. It lasted for eight months. But it was never going to work. I want kids. He doesn’t. He kept pushing me away, thinking that I’d be happier with someone else. Then I met Susan. We stayed friends, though. Good friends. I’m not sure why we didn’t tell you. Mycroft thought it might weird you out too much.” Greg paused, frowning at Sherlock in concern. “And apparently he was right. Are you okay?”

“Sherlock?” John murmured, touching his arm, fingers softly pressing. “Do you need to sit down? You look really blank.” 

John raised his hands to Sherlock’s face, rubbing his cheek. Sherlock grabbed his hand and held it tight, focusing on the feel of his skin to drag him out of the haze that had devoured his mind.

“How?” he whispered, unable to speak louder than that.

John and Greg both leaned forward.

“How what?” John asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat, forcing his voice to be louder.

“How could you keep this from me?”

Guilt shuddered in Greg’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. We really should have told you.”

What?

“No, not that. Well, yes that. You should have. But how? Literally how? How could I not notice that? I don’t see Mycroft often enough. Maybe that’s why on that end. But you. How did I miss this from you?” 

Sherlock scrutinized Greg. Everything about him looked normal. No expensive items of clothing. No signs of Mycroft’s affection. Nothing indicated any kind of connection to Mycroft at all. Had there been any and Sherlock had just ignored them? Christ, he should have paid closer attention. He was never as observant as he hoped to be. Mycroft was. Mycroft always was. He must have schooled Greg in how to lie to him about this.

“We tried hard not to advertise it,” Greg said. “But you didn’t completely miss it. You caught on that I was seeing someone before Susan. You commented on it.”

“Did I? I must have forgotten. But I never thought it could possibly be Mycroft. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“We’re all guilty of not considering all the possibilities,” John said gently, stroking Sherlock’s knuckles. “You shouldn’t feel bad about it.”

“But I need to consider all the possibilities. That’s my job, one of the foundations of my entire methodology. How can I work properly f I’m missing such obvious clues in my own life? Mycroft would have noticed. He always notices everything.”

“Sherlock, I’m really sorry,” Greg said. “We should have told you. Or I should have told you even if Mycroft didn’t want to. It’s just… you two don’t get along and I didn’t want it to affect how we work together.”

“Please. You really think I’d be that petty?”

Greg raised his brow in a “is this a serious question” expression.

“Ugh,” Sherlock muttered. “Don’t answer that.?

Sherlock let go of John’s hand and pulled out his phone. 

“Who are you calling?” John asked, apprehensive voice indicating that he knew exactly whose number Sherlock was dialing.

“Excuse me. I need to yell at Mycroft for a bit.”

Greg groaned and rubbed his eyes.

“Oh, Christ. It wasn’t all on him.”

“Are you sure you should be calling him right now?” John said. “I think you should calm down first.”

“The hell with calming down. He demands to know everything about my life but hides his own from me? Fuck that.” 

Mycroft answered within the second ring.

“I didn’t expect to hear from you on John’s first weekend here.”

“Never mind John. Why did you hide the fact that you have been sleeping with Greg?”

“We haven’t in years,” Greg protested. 

Sherlock ignored him. Mycroft was silent for an unusually long amount of time. Had Sherlock actually rendered him speechless? 

“He told you?”

Mycroft’s uneasy shock said it all.

“Yes, he bloody told me. Why didn’t you?”

“I’m really sorry about this,” John told Greg. “I didn’t mean to react.”

“I didn’t want to upset you,” Mycroft said. 

“It’s okay,” Greg told John. “Sherlock notices everything.”

Did he now? Clearly not.

“I wouldn’t have been upset,” Sherlock told Mycroft.

He paced around the sitting room in a tight circle, clutching the phone to his ear. 

“You’re upset now.”

“Because you lied to me.”

“I never told you anything that was untrue.”

“Oh, I’m sure there were plenty of mental gymnastics to guarantee that. You’re such a fucking hypocrite. You want to know everything about my life. Who I talk to. Where I go. But you form a relationship with my friend and I don’t have the right to know that?”

“He was my friend before he was yours. You were only interested in him at first because he gave you access to police cases.”

“And your reasons were so much purer. You probably—”

Sherlock bit his tongue before _only liked him for his body_ came out. Greg didn’t deserve that, even if it was probably true. Sherlock stepped towards the window as a pretense to turn his back to Greg and John.

“Finish that sentence and this call is over,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock sucked in a breath, shocked. He rarely heard Mycroft use that tone. Quiet, firm, and devastating. He was bloody furious. Of course he’d figured out what Sherlock almost said. This wasn’t just an idle connection between him and Greg. He cared about him. Truly. Could he love Greg? But Mycroft didn’t feel love like that. He wasn’t interested.

Oh. There had been one time when Mycroft had confessed to him that his attachment to one of his former bedmates may have strayed into the romantic sphere. The timing worked. That man had been Greg. Of course. How could Sherlock not have seen that?

“I’m not,” Sherlock said, voice tight and subdued. “I wouldn’t. But my point still stands. Don’t try to deny how grossly unfair this situation is.”

Mycroft sighed. 

“I’m not. You are right on that point. It was unfair of me. I apologize. But would you really have continued working with him if you had discovered that he was in any sort of relationship with me?”

Sherlock hesitated. Would he? He probably would have suspected Greg of lying when he said that he had rejected Mycroft’s offer to spy on him. And all sorts of information was revealed during pillow talk, or so he had heard. Greg wouldn’t have seemed so trustworthy under those circumstances. Sherlock sagged, exhausted. The anger that had fueled a mad trembling in his muscles abandoned him in a rush.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. God, how he hated bowing in defeat to Mycroft in anything. “But afterwards… After a couple of years, you should have told me. Both of you.”

Sherlock directed this last over his shoulder. Greg looked down, guilt in his eyes. 

“We should have, yes,” Mycroft said. “But Greg had married, so it seemed easier to maintain the lie. May I ask what prompted Greg to tell you now?”

Sherlock snorted. He turned toward Greg.

“Mycroft wants to know why you told me now,” he said.

“Oh, shit,” Greg said, every muscle in his body stiff and on its guard. “Uh…” He rubbed his face, frowning in inner turmoil. “Fuck it. I’ll tell him. If he knows about John, then it’s okay, right?”

John nodded, clasping him on the shoulder in reassurance. 

“Yeah, he’s been fine. A bit freaked out at first, but he got over it.”

“I expect that he’ll be a special kind of surprised this time around,” Sherlock said, covering up the phone microphone.

Greg rolled his eyes.

“Oh, shut it,” he said, taking out his own mobile to text Mycroft, no doubt. 

“What are you talking about?” Mycroft asked. “What is Greg saying? Oh.”

“Did you get his text?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.” The sound quality of the call had declined. Mycroft had shifted to speaker phone. “He’s coming over to my house later. He says that this is best said in person and not over the phone.”

Was that preoccupation in Mycroft’s tone?

“No need to fret. You have quite the fun conversation ahead of you.”

“Sherlock,” Greg groaned.

“Bye now.”

Sherlock hung up the phone and turned back to Greg and John, both of whom had their arms crossed over their chests and looked as awkward and weird abut all this as Sherlock felt. 

“So that was um…” John said, running out of steam halfway through. 

“Yeah,” Greg dragged out, fingers shifting uncertainly at his elbows. “Listen, Sherlock. I didn’t think about how this would feel from your side of things. About Mycroft always intruding on your business while hiding this from you. I should have thought of that. I’m sorry. Again.”

Sherlock tapped his mobile on his thigh, hand incapable of lying still. John came over to him and took his other hand, squeezing gently.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock blurted out, looking away at the wall, his voice as stiff as his back.

“If it were fine, you would be looking at me.”

It was the misery in Greg’s voice that cooled Sherlock’s anger. 

“Please don’t lie to me about anything like this again,” he said, meeting Greg’s eyes, which sparkled with relief.

“I won’t. I promise.”

Earnest words from an honest man. Usually honest. It would have to do. He didn’t have the energy to stay angry at Greg, nor did he want to. It wasn’t him who invaded Sherlock’s privacy. 

“Okay.” 

Sherlock pressed his lips together in a poor approximation of a smile, which was meant to relieve the tension, but probably did the opposite. He gripped John’s hand. 

“Let’s get back on track, shall we?” Sherlock said, kissing John’s knuckles before letting go and clapping his hands together. He regretted it immediately. That was too much. Too forced. But he didn’t know what else to do. “You two have met. That’s great. Forget Mycroft. I don’t see the need to bring him up again for the rest of the day. So…”

Great. Everyone looked even more awkward now. 

“Can we just move on please?” he asked, fully aware that he was whining, but what did he care? “I hate this.” He waved his hands in the air between them. “This feel in the room. I didn’t plan for this and I don’t like it.”

“How about I tell you more about werewolves?” Greg asked, smiling with desperate cheer. 

It withered as soon as Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, but Sherlock nodded. They sat down, Sherlock and John on the sofa with Greg across from them on the desk chair. John’s thigh pressed against his own, his hand a comforting weight on his knee. As Greg spoke, Sherlock began to loosen up and banish his treacherous brother from his mind to focus on what Greg was saying. Soon, he was asking him a plethora of specific questions, all of which Greg answered without complaining about Sherlock being too intrusive or demanding. Mycroft only interrupted them once by texting Greg, who sent off a quick reply. Whatever he said convinced Mycroft to stay quiet for the rest of the visit. 

Soon afterwards, Greg stood up, firm determination on his face.

“You know,” he said. “I think I will show you, after all.”

Sherlock sat up in excitement.

“You will?”

“Yeah.”

Greg smiled, gentle, so eager to please and silently asking forgiveness. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“You’re not just offering because you feel guilty, are you?”

“No. I’m not.” Greg winced a bit. “Okay, I do feel guilty, but I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. We’re friends. I’m showing you that you’re my friend and that I trust you. And you can trust me, even though it probably doesn’t feel like you can right now.”

“Why wouldn’t you show me before?”

“Well, because it was a bit of a shock you finding out. I needed some time to get used to it. I’m not just doing this to appease you, okay? I wouldn’t if I wasn’t comfortable with it. Please don’t worry about that.”

There didn’t seem to be any subterfuge in Greg’s eyes. Sherlock glanced at John, who shrugged.

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I flashed a complete stranger.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. If Greg really was okay with it… And Sherlock did want to see his wolf form.

“Alright,” he said, excited butterflies returning. 

Greg smiled in relief.

“Okay,” he said. “Do you mind if I change in your room? The loo is a little cramped.”

“Sure. Help yourself.”

Greg left for the bedroom. Sherlock wiggled on the sofa, shaking his legs in anticipation. John chuckled beside him. 

“I’ve missed seeing you this excited for a transformation,” he said, smiling fondly.

“Have you? I’m always excited about that. I’ll have to do better in the future, then.” 

John grabbed his left hand and kissed his knuckles. 

“There’s no need to push yourself. Your happy reaction is good enough for me.”

A moment later, a large wolf emerged from the corridor and strolled up to them. Sherlock jumped up and met him halfway, sitting down on the floor with a wide grin, hands instantly rising just like they had with John that first time. 

“Can I?” he asked. “I don’t know if that’s okay.”

Greg responded with a soft “woof” and poked Sherlock’s cheek with his snout, giving him a soft lick. Sherlock giggled and sank his hands into Greg’s abundant and surprisingly soft fur, petting his muzzle. John came up beside them and scratched behind Greg’s ears.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, walking toward the front door.

Sherlock and Greg both turned to him.

“Are you going to transform, too?” Sherlock asked.

John smiled with a mischievous, excited gleam.

“Sure am.”

He ducked out the door, rushing up the stairs. Sherlock’s grin widened. Oh, this was perfect. So perfect. He met Greg’s eyes, as dark brown as they had ever been. He’d like to think that he would be able to recognize them even if he hadn’t known this was Greg, but he couldn’t be sure. Although, the distribution of brown and white strands on his coat matched his human form’s coloring perfectly. And there was no mistaking Greg’s friendly, ingratiating gaze, which remained unchanged from a few minutes ago, still begging for forgiveness for his transgression.

Sherlock’s hands slowed on Greg’s head. Greg had shown him trust and friendship by showing all of himself to Sherlock. Sherlock should do something in return to make it clear that he accepted it and forgave him, which he already had. Of course he had. Mycroft was the one who was most at fault here. What did Greg’s one deception count against Mycroft’s dozens? 

“Selkies touch cheeks together to show friendship,” Sherlock said. “I’m quite fond of the custom. Can I?”

Greg wagged his tail enthusiastically, already moving forward, paws brushing against Sherlock’s knees. Sherlock pressed his face to Greg’s, laughing as his fur tickled his neck, and hugged him for good measure. They had just made contact when John started coming down the stairs, flippers plodding on the steps. When Sherlock had first watched him do this at his house, worry had knotted in his stomach that John would miss a step and plummet onto his face, but John had completed the journey with the skill of one who has been navigating the human world for years. Sherlock had felt rather silly for worrying. Both Sherlock and Greg turned toward the doorway when John appeared. Sherlock smiled widely at him and John uttered a happy reply before turning his attention to Greg, tugging at Sherlock’s arms. 

Sherlock released him so that Greg could go to John. Despite having been introduced before, another introduction was required, it seemed, for they stopped before each other and sniffed. Greg bent his head, thrusting his snout eagerly at John, who rubbed his cheek against his and hopped eagerly. Greg wagged his tail in joy. Both made happy sounds in their own respective languages. Sherlock’s heart warmed at the sight, and not only because it was one of the cutest things that he had ever seen. He hadn’t had a chance to enjoy them meeting each other before with all the Mycroft business, but now he felt a gooey, ecstatic feeling. It was startling. He never felt like this. Never had reason to. Is this what it was like having a partner? A friend? A partner and a friend? If only Mrs. Hudson were here, too, the picture would be complete, but it would be selfish to wreck her rational worldview, too. 

John and Greg turned their attention back to Sherlock, who held out his arms to receive John. Sherlock fell back, laughing as John placed a fin on his chest and nuzzled his face, whiskers everywhere. Greg stepped around Sherlock’s other side, but hovered a short distance away, looking uncertainly at them.

“You’re not interrupting,” Sherlock said, holding a hand out. “Come on.”

Yipping playfully, Greg sank to the ground beside them, wagging his tail, and placed his head on what free space was left on Sherlock’s chest, puppy eyes demanding cuddles. Sherlock readily obliged, petting his head and scratching behind his ears. The gooey feeling in his chest grew, endorphins shooting through his system, better than any rush that he’d ever had. The feeling of lightness and happiness was intoxicating. Freeing. He never wanted this to end. 

But it did have to eventually, alas. Mrs. Hudson had left shortly after Greg’s arrival for her weekly gaming meetup, but she would be back by three, and it would be best to avoid shocking her by having a seal and a wolf in the flat. So after too short of a time playing on the floor, both shapeshifters went away to change back, leaving Sherlock sighing wistfully on the floor even as a buzz of enjoyment lingered in his body. He hopped onto his feet, stretching his legs around the room, then lied down on the sofa, curling into a pleasant ball. He was ready for a nap. 

“Did we tire you out?” Greg asked as he came back into the sitting room, buttoning up his shirt. He looked much more relaxed than the last time that he’d been human shaped.

“Hm,” Sherlock hummed. “Invigorating yet sleep-inducing at once, yes. It was nice. Unexpected.”

Greg snorted.

“I’ll say. I never pictured myself doing that with you. I haven’t with any human, now that I think about it.”

“Hm. Am I special, then?”

Greg rolled his eyes, finishing on his shirt.

“You just want me to feed your ego.”

Sherlock smirked.

“Don’t do that, Greg,” John said, stepping inside the flat. “His ego doesn’t need any more feeding.”

Sherlock sat up, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Fine, then. Although the circumstances dictate that I am, in fact, special, and there’s nothing either of you can do about it.” Sherlock lied on his back and picked at his nails. “Even though you’ll probably do this with Mycroft in a moment, I will still have been first.”

That was the wrong thing to say, given how the temperature in the room seemed to plummet along with Greg’s face.

“Oh, stop fretting,” Sherlock said. “I’ve forgiven you for your fib. Although what you see in my brother is beyond me. Then again, you do seem to go for the vainglorious types, don’t you?”

“I’m not the only one,” Greg said, glancing at John, who coughed guiltily into his hand.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“I’m not… You can’t compare me to…” Sherlock curled up further on the sofa. “Oh, shut up, both of you.”

John chuckled softly. Sherlock’s frown intensified, but he couldn’t bring himself to be truly peeved at John, who came over to him and took his right hand, dropping a kiss on his knuckles. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re not as bad as all that. And you’re still prettier than Mycroft.”

“I feel the need to say,” Greg said, “that I don’t agree with that in case you decide to goad Mycroft by telling him that I didn’t object to you being prettier than him.”

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said, recuperating a bit from his strop under John’s gentle touch. “I won’t tell him that you secretly think that I’m prettier.”

Frightened horror crossed Greg’s face.

“Oi! That’s not what I said. Do not tell him that.”

“Sherlock’s not going to tell him,” John said, raising a brow at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

“Fine. I won’t tell him that.”

“Thank you,” Greg said, grabbing his coat. “I don’t need to get into more trouble right now.” He frowned, unsure. “Telling him that I’m a wolf is likely to go okay, right? He’s not going to freak out? It’s not like it’s all new information by now.”

“You’ll be fine,” John said. “He might even find it a plus. He’s still asking me questions. I’ve learned that there’s no higher honor than being the subject of a Holmes’s curiosity.”

He smiled fondly at Sherlock, who grinned back, kneading his palm under his fingertips. 

“I guess that’s true,” Greg said, tugging on his coat with a lopsided, fond smile that put all sorts of unpleasant mental pictures in Sherlock’s mind. He most certainly did not want to know what his brother and Greg got up to. 

“I’ll be going, then,” Greg said. “Mycroft is probably pacing a hole in his floorboards by now. It was really nice meeting you, John. It was a pleasant surprise.”

“That it was, yeah,” John said, smiling back. “I haven’t bonded with a fellow shapeshifter in forever.” He turned to Sherlock with a smile. “And it was so good sharing it with you, too.” Sherlock’s heart warmed at the affection in John’s beautiful blue eyes. “I would love to do it again.” John looked between the two of them. “That is, if you want to. Either of you.”

“You won’t get an objection from me,” Sherlock said.

“Not from me, either,” Greg said. “I would love to, too. I needed that. It’s been a while for me, too. I’ve been so busy lately. I’m glad we did this.” Greg looked at Sherlock, an earnestness in his eyes reminiscent of when he’d told Sherlock that he supported him wholeheartedly when he came out. Sherlock sat up, dropping John’s hand. It felt like a moment one should sit up for. 

“I don’t know about you,” Greg said, stepping forward, fingers curling nervously at his sides. “We already connected more than we ever had last week, but… For us, for me anyway… This is one of the greatest way that we express friendship. If the people involved are into it, that is. What I’m trying to say is, I feel like we’re closer now.”

“Yes, so John explained,” Sherlock said, rubbing his fingers together in his lap. “I…” He looked down at the ground, the intensity of looking Greg in the eyes suddenly overwhelming, keenly aware that they had never been so open about their relationship before. “I do feel closer to you, too. I wish that it hadn’t taken me so long to realize what a good friend you are. Thank you.”

The touched expression on Greg’s face made Sherlock want to flee the room or jump into his arms for a hug and then flee the room. He chose the hug, but without any fleeing, squeezing him harder than he’d anticipated and receiving just as firm a hold. He stepped back shyly, head down, shrinking back toward the sofa, although he didn’t sit. John hovered at his side, a silent, approving figure. Greg’s surprised, joyful smile remained, enhancing Sherlock’s wish to escape the awkwardness of it all. His heart was beating too hard and his skin was itchy. He felt dangerously close to floating away somehow, irrational thought though it was. 

“You’re welcome,” Greg said. “Well, um… I’ll be off, then. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” John said. “Though I’m sure you won’t need it.”

“He’ll probably find it sexy, knowing him,” Sherlock said.

Greg didn’t look like he was certain whether that would be a good thing or not. Why wouldn’t it be a good thing? He was divorcing his wife, anyway. Perhaps he wasn’t attracted to Mycroft that way anymore after all these years, but if that were the case, he wouldn’t have reacted in a strong enough fashion for John to have picked up on. 

“Maybe,” Greg said. “Bye, then.”

“Bye,” John and Sherlock said in unison, giggling at the coincidence. 

As Greg closed the door behind him, Sherlock sank back on the sofa, limbs spread out akimbo, more tired than he had been in ages. John sat beside him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Why? Do I not look okay?”

“You look happy, but overwhelmed.”

“I do feel overwhelmed. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I certainly didn’t expect to cuddle with Greg. How about you? What was that like for you? Is it customary when first meeting someone or did you do it because Greg is my friend?”

John slouched back against the cushions.

“Because he’s your friend. And because he’s a shapeshifter, and it really has been much too long.”

Uncertainty sparked in Sherlock’s gut. 

“It’s different from cuddling with a human,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and calm, but John divined his worry and dropped his head on his shoulder.

“It is different. Not superior, though. I’d rather cuddle with you than with anyone else. It’s just nice. And you being part of the cuddle made it infinitely better.” John kissed Sherlock’s jaw and took his left hand in both of his. “It’s also nice having another friend. Greg and I are friends now. You can’t do that and not be.”

“I got that impression. I can give you his number, if you like.”

“I would like that.”

Sherlock hadn’t been paying as close attention to John’s mood as he should have been, so focused as he’d been on Greg. The lightness in John was of a sort that hadn’t been there earlier. He was happy. Cuddling with Greg had done him a world of good, too. Sherlock hadn’t considered how much John needed to be with someone of his world, someone who could give him those things that Sherlock could not. Although a werewolf couldn’t follow him to the ocean, either, even if John weren’t banished. 

“You’re very pensive,” John said, raising his head and frowning at him. “It’s starting to worry me.”

“Why? I’m often pensive.”

“You looked much happier just a minute ago.”

Sherlock sighed, kicking himself. 

“I’m just being stupid. Ignore me.”

John brushed a curl off Sherlock’s forehead.

“What is it, darling?”

Sherlock stared at him.

“Darling?”

John paused, uncertain.

“Is that too much?”

Sherlock shook his head, smiling.

“No, it’s fine. It’s great. Really, do ignore me. I know you wouldn’t throw me over for another shapeshifter.”

Did he, though?

“Really?” John sighed. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t be worrying about that. Of course I’m not going to do that. I can’t imagine any selkie, werewolf, kelpie, etcetera, being a better partner for me than you. Okay?”

“You sure?” Sherlock said, but he already felt better. “This one form of mine won’t get boring for you?”

“Are you kidding me? Have you seen you? I can’t imagine anyone finding you boring. I’m a big fan of this form of yours, if I may say so. Perfectly cuddly, too.”

John wrapped a arm and a leg over Sherlock, burrowing his face into Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock laughed, feeling better. 

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “I believe you. And you may say so as often as you like.”

“Good. I intend to.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thsi is the longest chapter. It's also the first of eight in Mycroft's POV. They mostly deal with his relationship with Greg, but there's pieces of his relationship with Sherlock, too.

_“No need to fret. You have quite the fun conversation ahead of you.”_

Mycroft had, in fact, been fretting about precisely that for the past two hours with no sign of release from its torment, because Greg had yet to arrive at his house. His last text had been rebuffed with a firm,

_I can’t tell you now. I’ll be there soon. Promise._

Perhaps rebuffed was too strong a word. It wouldn’t be the first time that Greg had chosen Sherlock’s company over his own, although those instances usually involved a dead body. None applied in this case, although the subject of this particular meeting was of even greater import to Sherlock, so Mycroft shouldn’t be surprised that Greg was taking his time. He had, however, been very surprised to receive Sherlock’s angry phone call. Why would Greg tell him about their previous liaisons now? Had it been an accidental slip up? Unlikely. Greg was much too cautious for that. A deliberate choice, then. But why? And he wouldn’t do so without consulting Mycroft. Neither alternative made sense, yet it had to be one of the two. John’s visit must be connected somehow. The timing couldn’t be a coincidence, but again, what was the connection?

It hadn’t been Mycroft’s original intention to deceive Sherlock for so long. Only for as long as it took Sherlock to trust Greg and continue working with him. Working on the police cases stabilized him more than anything ever had after Victor’s unfortunate departure. Although their relationship had been fracturing before then. Mycroft had been bracing himself for a definite end for some time before Victor decided to make the decisive break to leave the country. 

The next two years had been the roughest that he’d ever seen Sherlock suffer through. Despite his brother’s repeated protestations that he wouldn’t attempt anything so final again (or that he had even intentionally done so), Mycroft had feared for him. Immensely. It was a miracle that he hadn’t suffered a mental collapse himself from his constant worrying and lack of sleep, on top of a burgeoning career in the ministry. When an “unsolvable” double homicide had caught Sherlock’s attention five years ago and he had hounded the leading detective on the case to let him take a look, that he could solve it after all, and instead of dismissing Sherlock as a nuisance, that detective had listened to him, that had finally been the start of Sherlock’s recovery. 

Of course, Mycroft had needed to verify that this Detective Lestrade was treating Sherlock well and not mocking him like so many others did, even while making use of his aid. Mycroft wouldn’t have Sherlock taken advantage of. No matter how often Sherlock dismissed people making fun of him, claiming that he didn’t care, that he just ignored them, Mycroft could see that it hurt him. So he had Greg brought to him, discreetly, for a private interview. Greg preferred to refer to it as “kidnapping”, even after losing his rancor over it once he got to know Mycroft better. Perhaps it had been that. Technically. 

Thankfully, Greg had lived up to Mycroft’s stringent standards. There had been some indiscretions in his youth, but he had straightened out after joining the police force and had an exemplary record since then. It spoke of a man dedicated to the pursuit of justice, not just a careerist. He refused Mycroft’s offer of payment in exchange for spying on Sherlock outright, looking appalled at the very notion that he would ever do such a thing. He praised Sherlock’s deductive abilities and keenness for criminal investigation. Mycroft had a moment of doubt when Greg admitted to finding Sherlock “a bit weird”, but it vanished in the next instant when Greg said,

“But so what? That’s not a bad thing. Sure, I wish that he wasn’t so damned rude, but he’s very smart. Smartest person I’ve ever met. And he’s a good guy. He’s just not good with people, that’s all.”

“So you would be amenable to continuing to work with him on cases?” Mycroft asked.

“Sure. I mean. It’s a bit of a dodgy, grey area, but we never would have caught this guy if it weren’t for him. It took some finagling, but I’d love to work with him again, yeah. I’m not too proud to admit that I’ll probably be stumped again at some point. That’s inevitable for anyone.”

Then had come a display of Greg’s own deductive abilities, even if they were sadly limited to the exceedingly obvious, as everyone’s were. 

“You’re his brother, aren’t you?” Greg had said, no trace of uncertainty in his voice.

Mycroft had conceded the point with a small nod and smile.

“I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” he said.

“I was thinking that you two were related since I saw you. You have the same air about you.”

“What air would that be?”

“You’re well-dressed. Very sure of yourselves. Arrogant, to be frank. You look a bit alike. You scanned me the moment you saw me just like Sherlock does. I could practically see you deducing me in your head. And you’re really concerned about him. That offer to spy on him was a test, wasn’t it?”

Mycroft’s smile broadened. 

“It was.”

“A pretty transparent one. You should try better next time.”

His cheeky expression would usually have annoyed Mycroft, but not this time. It made Greg’s face even more handsome, a feature that Mycroft had been allured by from the moment that he looked at Greg’s file. Fine bone structure, a strong chin (a particular weakness of Mycroft’s), soft, brown eyes, an easy, radiant smile, brown hair slowly going grey, giving him a delicious salt and pepper look. A thorough search into his background revealed a couple of male dalliances, so he wouldn’t necessarily be adverse to Mycroft’s advances. That is, unless he didn’t go for the “arrogant” type. Although, once Greg’s irritation at being ambushed on the street and dragged here had died down, Mycroft had detected signs of appreciation for his own looks. 

But getting involved with someone connected to Sherlock would be complicated, to say the least. Best not. 

“I apologize for the abrupt nature of this meeting,” Mycroft said. “But Sherlock has had a rough time of late. There aren’t many people in his life who are kind to him. It would be very beneficial for him to continue working with Scotland Yard, but I need to make sure that it’s a healthy environment for him.”

“You mean, that no one’s disrespecting him and that he isn’t getting himself into danger?”

“Precisely. I admit that it’s a tall order, especially on the second part. Probably impossible to avoid, if I’m completely honest. Sherlock is rather difficult to manage when he has his mind set on something. But if there’s anything you can do to persuade him to not be completely reckless, I would really appreciate it.”

“Sure, I’ll try my best, but I can’t make any promises. He is really stubborn. You know, you didn’t have to kidnap me to tell me all this. You could have just come into my office.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Far too public. I prefer to keep things off the record.”

“Right. It wouldn’t be dramatic enough, would it?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. It was hardly the first time that Greg graced him with a smart remark. He made rather a habit of it, which only increased once he caught wind that Mycroft secretly enjoyed them. Not that Mycroft had ever intended to pursue a close association with the good detective. He had him returned to his flat, planning nothing more than to check on him from a distance. Perhaps to communicate with him on occasion over Sherlock’s wellbeing.

But Greg proved too enticing a subject. What was meant to be a simple communication via text over Sherlock’s behavior in his second case with Scotland Yard turned into an actual conversation, courtesy of Greg refusing to stick by the program and asking him questions on how he was doing, complaining about the incessant rain in a rather lengthy rant which he apologized for immediately, and asking if Sherlock liked ice cream. The ice cream question (which, as Mycroft suspected, was intended as a way to placate Sherlock when he was being stroppy) led to an entire discussion about favorite ice cream flavors and which brand did it best. Before Mycroft was even aware of what was happening, Greg had invited him to what he considered to be the best ice cream shop in London and Mycroft had accepted. He didn’t even realize what he’d done until halfway through composing a work email an hour later. 

He considered canceling the outing. It wasn’t appropriate. Sherlock would throw a tantrum if he found out and consider Greg suspect for consorting with Mycroft, probably refusing to work with him again. Then who else in Scotland Yard would take him on? Despite Greg’s best efforts, none of the other officers were very keen on Sherlock’s involvement. And Sherlock liked Greg. He had admitted as much to Mycroft. Sherlock was in too fragile a state, barely getting back on his feet after…

After what he’d nearly done two years ago. Mycroft wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that. 

_I apologize_ , he texted Greg. _But I’m unable to make it to the ice cream shop._

 _I’m sorry to hear that_ , Greg replied. _Another time, then?_

_I don’t think we should. Sherlock and I don’t have the best relationship and he might not be so willing to work with you if he knows that we are in any way connected._

_Really? Wow. What happened between you two?_

Greg immediately texted again.

_I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I’m sorry to hear that._

_It’s alright. Thank you. We’ve always had a tenuous relationship. Perhaps it would be easier if we were closer in age. It’s a long story and I’m not sure I have the right to tell you all of it. I have made some mistakes. All I can do now is try my best to make sure that he’s alright._

_I get it. I mean, I don’t have siblings so I don’t have personal experience or anything, but I understand. It’s okay if you don’t want to go out. I guess wanting to go out with the guy who kidnapped you is a little messed up anyway, right?_

A laughing emoji followed.

_I wish you wouldn’t refer to it as kidnapping._

_Hey, you knew what you were doing. I really should still be annoyed with you._

_Why aren’t you?_

_I don’t know. Fighting with you over ice cream humanized you, I guess._

Mycroft had smiled at that. He hesitated over his reply, certain that he should not be suggesting this, but it wasn’t like he would be developing a romantic entanglement with Greg, anyway. That wasn’t in his nature. He should make that clear.

 _There is the possibility_ , he texted, _of us not telling Sherlock. It is only ice cream, after all._

That wasn’t clear enough. There lied the possibility that Greg might interpret it as some sort of euphemism, but he felt strangely vulnerable revealing the particular way that he experienced human emotion over text with a man who he’d only spoken to in person once. He would rather wait. 

_I’m fine with that,_ Greg texted. _It’s probably best not to bother him before anything actually happens._

Greg texted again.

_Not that I’m assuming anything is going to happen._

And again.

_You know what I mean. I’m cool with not telling him. That’s all I meant to say._

Mycroft chuckled. 

_I took your meaning. It’s settled then._

_Great! I’ll see you there._

It was never going to just be ice cream. Ordering their favorite flavors at the shop turned into walking in Hyde’s Park, which turned into a surprisingly riveting conversation of their university days and embarrassing mistakes they had made early on in their careers. Mycroft shocked himself by revealing how he had spilled wine all over a baroness’s dress and tried to get back in her good graces by sending her a gift basket, of all things. Which included chocolates with a type of nut that she was deathly allergic to. He had never been so careless with details again. Greg had laughed so hard at the anecdote that he’d nearly dropped what was left of his ice cream cone. A dollop of vanilla was smeared on his bottom lip. Mycroft had spent the last ten minutes picturing himself licking that dollop clean off, following his ministration with a deep, long kiss. 

The rate of fantasizing about touching his companion only intensified as their conversation continued. He was sure that he should not be contemplating asking Greg to go to his house, but god, did he want to. But he mustn’t, so he bit his tongue until the very last moment, when Greg took the initiative for him.

“Hey, uh. It’s probably too early for this, but it’s getting chilly and I’m having a good time with you. Do you want to, maybe, come back to my flat?” Embarrassed uncertainty entered Greg’s eyes. “Just to keep talking if you want. I don’t want to presume—”

“I would love to. And presume away.”

The sweetest blush heated Greg’s cheeks even as he grinned in delight. 

They didn’t have sex that night, but a very satisfying snogging session was in order. It thoroughly sabotaged Mycroft’s determination that this should be a one time thing. Greg asked him out on another date. Due to their hectic schedules, they weren’t able to get together again for two weeks, but the passage of time only strengthened Mycroft’s attraction towards Greg, who didn’t cease to text him throughout. Even something as simple as Greg inquiring after his wellbeing touched him more deeply than he’d ever thought possible. His parents were the only ones who ever asked about his health. It was rare for Sherlock to do so these days, and mostly when he needed something. The phrase “How are you?” was such a staple of small talk that it often had no meaning at all. Yet Greg meant it. He genuinely cared. They had shared one day together, one snog. Not much at all. Yet it hardly felt like little. 

“I have to be upfront about something,” Mycroft said on their second date, for lack of a better word. 

A proper dinner this time, at a restaurant of Mycroft’s choosing. Greg had sat back, brow crinkling with worry, yet trying to keep a light tone as he replied.

“That sounds serious,” he said. 

“I only want to avoid misunderstandings.” Mycroft interlaced his fingers and placed his hands on the table, but that was much too businesslike. This was a personal matter. He removed his hands, placing them back down on the armrests. “I like you. I enjoy your company immensely. Conversing with you.” He smiled a bit. “Kissing you.”

Greg grinned back.

“But I’m not the romantic sort. Either in behavior or actual experience. I’m aromantic. Do you know what that means?”

“I don’t.” 

Greg narrowed his eyes. In confusion, not hostility, yet Mycroft didn’t allow himself to relax. Greg might still decide to cut the evening short. 

“It means that I don’t experience romantic attraction. I only understand it on a conceptual level, and hardly at that, to be honest. Nor am I interested in romantically-coded activities like anniversaries or Valentine’s Day or giving people flowers. It’s not a judgement on those who enjoy it. I simply don’t. I perceive by your expression that you do enjoy these things.”

“Well, I’m not really good about doing something big for Valentine’s Day, but yeah. I like giving people flowers and stuff. So what are you looking for here? With us? Is this a date? I thought it was.”

“I’m fine calling it that. Although I’ve never been involved with anyone romantically. I prefer more casual relationships.”

“Like hookups?”

“You could call them that, yes.”

Reading Greg’s face was a surprisingly anxiety-inducing experience. His disappointment at Mycroft’s declaration was clear, yet he tried, and failed, not to show it. But he also rallied, his brows set in determination to find a solution, for he also enjoyed Mycroft’s company and didn’t want to simply sever ties. If Mycroft was reading him correctly, which he hoped he was. 

“That still doesn’t answer my question about what you want from me,” Greg said. “Us, I mean. We went for ice cream and now we’re having dinner at a posh restaurant. I thought that was romantic, but that’s not for you, then?”

“No. They’re simply activities that can be interpreted however the participants want. I must say, I’m relieved that you haven’t protested that it’s not possible not to feel romantic feelings or called me cold for it.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I don’t get it, to be honest. I am having a little trouble wrapping my head around it, but I’m trying, okay? And of course I wouldn’t call you cold. Sure, I thought that about you when you were interrogating me, but I wouldn’t be here if I still did.”

Mycroft smiled, relieved.

“I’m glad. To finally answer your question, I do feel a bit on uncharted waters here. Like I said, I greatly enjoy your company and I would love to continue seeing you. I’m not looking to sleep with you and then disappear, unless that’s what you would like. But I’m not sure that I want a fully committed, romantic type relationship. Apart from not being inclined in that direction, I work very long hours, as you know, and wouldn’t be able to put in the time commitment that such a relationship requires.”

“Well, I don’t have a nine to five job, either. I work crazy hours, too. Though not as crazy as yours. Look, I do want marriage and all that stuff, but not necessarily right now. I like you, too. We don’t have to get all serious if you don’t want. We can just eat our dinner and see what happens.”

“You’re certain?”

Greg shrugged, but the eyes that met Mycroft’s looked sincere.

“Yeah. You wouldn’t be the first casual cling I’ve had. God, that sounded bad. What I meant was that we can just have some fun, you know? Just keep it light.”

Mycroft scrutinized Greg’s face, but found nothing to worry about. He smiled.

“Alright. We’ll keep it light, then.”

And so they did, for a grand total of eight months. Whenever they had a chance, they dined and went back to Mycroft’s house, for Greg refused to “make you suffer my crappy flat” after seeing the comfortable surroundings Mycroft had built for himself. And the king size bed, which was very helpful to their nighttime activities. Sometimes they skipped dinner and went straight home to enjoy it. Mycroft had worried that Greg would tire of their casual situation quickly, but his enthusiasm, both in bed and out of it, confirmed quite the opposite. Mycroft had rarely been so enthralled by a lover before. Greg was generous, energetic, and imaginative, and was quite the enthusiastic cuddler, too. Mycroft didn’t often linger with his bedmates after the deed was done, but he found himself enjoying Greg’s gentle caresses and murmured sweet nothings as the thrill of his climax eased into a pleasant haze of contentment. 

The non-sexual side of their relationship proved just as satisfying. It amazed Mycroft how easily he came to trust and rely on Greg as a confidante and conversational partner. He had never been much for friends. He hardly inspired a liking for his company in most people, who found him off-putting, among many other less flattering terms. And it was incredibly difficult to find someone who was willing to be with him who didn’t bore him after a couple of meetings. He had never bothered much in pursuing friends, yet that was precisely what Greg had become. A good one. Greg was loyal and affectionate, two qualities that Mycroft wasn’t accustomed to having directed at himself. He felt cared for. That had not happened since he was a child. He was the one who watched over others, particularly Sherlock. He was the caretaker, not the recipient, yet Greg made him breakfast after spending the night together, texted him to remind him to eat while he was at work, and always made sure that Mycroft was alright whenever any aspect of their relationship ventured too closely to romantic territory. None of his past lovers had dotted on him so. Yet none of those had blossomed into real relationships, either. 

Greg’s concern and kind treatment toward Sherlock only increased Mycroft’s appreciation. Far from growing tired of Sherlock’s demands and meltdowns, Greg engaged him with patience and a gentle, yet firm hand, establishing boundaries that their own parents had failed to do when he was little. Mycroft had worried at first that Sherlock would chafe under Greg’s refusal to let him walk all over him, like he did with Mycroft, but Sherlock actually backed down. Grumpily and with all the petty sulkiness that he could muster, but he did. He respected Greg, even when he complained about not getting his way. 

“Not all the officers in Scotland Yard are incompetent, after all,” he told Mycroft once, if a tad moodily. 

Sherlock, while far from flourishing, was improving from working with Greg, who tried his best to ensure that no one mocked him or resented his presence. This could not have been easy with Sherlock’s persistent refusal to obey basic common courtesy. Mycroft didn’t get to see Sherlock often, but when he did, he looked less depressed and healthier, like he had an actual purpose in life beyond walling himself up in his tiny flat and losing himself in experiments to dull the ache of not getting high. Perhaps with his newfound purpose he might be able to finally summon the willpower to stop smoking as well, a vice that Mycroft also struggled with despite having officially quit a year earlier. His energy was less manic, more focused and hopeful. If he kept this up, one day he might actually be happy. Seeing life return to Sherlock’s eyes was a debt to Greg that Mycroft could never repay. 

Yet despite his gratitude, his enthusiastic enjoyment of Greg’s company, and the growing affection that he felt toward him, he couldn’t bring himself to cave to Greg’s silent desire and agree to a committed relationship. They had never wanted the same thing. They both knew this. Greg desired marriage and children. Mycroft did not. Greg wanted cheesy romantic gifts. Mycroft vehemently did not. While they were very compatible in the ways that Mycroft considered to be most important, they were sadly lacking in many areas that Greg considered to be of equal importance, and Mycroft wouldn’t doom him to future misery by demanding commitment when Mycroft couldn’t offer him all that he desired in a long term partner. Mycroft wasn’t even sure if he wanted a long-term partner himself. He had never even considered it before meeting Greg. So, regretfully, he made it clear that Greg should feel no compunction about terminating their relationship if he found someone more suitable. Greg resented the idea that their relationship could end at any moment, and assured Mycroft that he was happy, so Mycroft let it go. Yet it was Greg who let go first. 

During a period of seven, hellish weeks, they couldn’t find any way to meet each other for more than a handful of hours and some scattered phone calls. Mycroft always wondered if it was the distance that persuaded Greg to seek the romance that he wanted elsewhere, or if it was a welcome reprieve back to reality. Either way, Mycroft should have been relieved that he was no longer stringing Greg along. But that wasn’t the emotion that he felt when Greg called him to announce, hesitant and apologetic, that he’d met someone else, someone who did want the same things that he did, and that he’d like to give it a shot.

“I hate doing this over the phone,” Greg had said. Mycroft didn’t need to see his face to know that it would be crumpled with shame and guilt despite Mycroft’s previous assurances that they need not be exclusive. “It feels wrong. I should have done you the courtesy of doing this face to face.”

“It’s alright,” Mycroft said, the words stinging in his throat like broken glass. “We both knew this couldn’t last, not with our basic incompatibility. While I will miss you, I am happy for you. I want you to have the family you desire.”

“Thank you. It might not work out, though.”

“You won’t know unless you try.”

“Yeah, I know. I just hate that I have to hurt you to do it. I really wish that… But we are who we are. We can’t change that.”

“No, we cannot. I appreciate that you didn’t try to change me and convince me to have children.”

“No, of course not. If you don’t want them, then you don’t. I should thank you too for not trying to convince me to not want them.”

“I shall repeat what you told me, then. I want you to be happy. That wasn’t gong to happen with us, no matter how hard we tried.”

A pause in the phone line indicated Greg’s silent agreement.

“I’d still like to remain friends,” he said. “I know everyone says that just to be polite, but I mean it. We were always kind of a friends with benefits situation, so why not keep the friends part? I don’t want to completely lose you. Would that work for you or would it be too much?”

Mycroft smiled. 

“I would love that.”

After hanging up the phone a while later, Mycroft poured himself a glass of rosé and put on a recording of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 2, the symphony that Mycroft had taken Greg to see as a birthday treat. He sat in his favorite armchair in the siting room and sipped his wine, numb, throat clenching around a pain that he’d never experienced before and didn’t know how to quantify. He remained so until his glass ran dry and he got up to pour another. Then another. And so on until he was so inebriated that he got no further than the nearest sofa and a hastily grabbed cushion to sleep the rest of the night away, the recording having already looped back numerous times on auto play. 

He awoke to a horrifying nausea that he hadn’t experienced since his uni days, and a pounding headache made worse by the shrieking of his phone’s morning alarm. He nearly fell to the floor in his haste to snatch the offending machine from the table where he’d dropped it. It took three jerky swipes at the screen to get the miserable device to shut up. He sank to the floor, moaning in pain. For the first time ever, he went to work with a blistering hangover, medicated to the gills with paracetamol and a constant glass of water in his hand. He hoped that his miserable mood that day was due only to the grievous imbalance in his body and not to the depressing phone call that he’d received the day before.

He was wrong. Of course. Not even he could lie to himself and get away with it. He dove into work like he had always done, yet Greg and the memory of lips which he’d never touch against pestered his every waking hour, and even some of his sleeping ones. Could this be love? He had never experienced the non-familial type, so how would he know? He googled the concept, both romantic and platonic, doing the most exhaustive study of crushes and squishes and every permutation of affection that he had ever made since Sherlock told him that terms existed for what they were. But his confusion about romantic feelings remained unchanged. Could it be a more intense form of friendship love, then, made painful now by Greg’s change in status in his life? Despite Greg’s desire to remain friends, their communication shrank to awkward texts, which in turn declined in frequency. Greg’s relationship with his now girlfriend Susan was progressing well. Despite his better judgement, Mycroft had grown to depend on Greg as a primary source of companionship, yet he had been supplanted by a romantic partner, who were always of a higher status. 

So Mycroft’s depressed mood was easily explained. He was in the midst of a significant life change. His best, and only, friend and bedmate was distancing himself from him and lowering Mycroft’s rank in his own life. Mycroft admonished himself for daring to hope that he, with his unwillingness to engage in romance even as a mere façade, could be enough for a man who desired these things. 

And he did feel insufficient. Long ago, before they knew themselves, Sherlock had once asked him if he ever wondered if something was wrong with them for not being able to feel what others did. Mycroft had answered with a firm “no”. There was nothing wrong. Yet now he asked himself if he wasn’t missing something. Was he, though? Hearing Greg’s voice on the phone brought him joy mingled with a deep seated melancholy and a yearning that he couldn’t shake. What else could this be but love? But of what kind? Did it even matter?

Their next lunch date— 

No, not a date. That word couldn’t apply between them anymore. The next time that they met was even more stilted and awkward than the first time they’d faced each other across that abandoned warehouse when Mycroft “kidnapped” him. The dinner had been Greg’s idea, but had it been guilt that encouraged him to invite him? Greg did seem genuinely glad to see him, his eyes bright, smile happy, quickly leaning in for a hug before standing back, suddenly realizing that things had changed and that he shouldn’t assume anymore that Mycroft would be willing to hug him back. But of course he was. He would welcome any touch that Greg was still willing to give him, no matter how small. Mycroft bridged the gap between them, heart aching as he counted the seconds to make sure that he didn’t linger for longer than was appropriate, even as he desired nothing more than to sink himself into Greg’s scent and taste the wonder of his skin. 

“How have you been?” Greg asked, adopting the best casual expression that he could muster, which wasn’t nearly enough to disguise the worry in his eyes, the knowledge that if Mycroft answered with something negative, it was likely to be his fault. So Mycroft chose to avoid the question. 

“Work is trying, as always. But nothing I can’t manage. You seem well.”

“Yeah. Work is also annoying, but it’s going well.”

“How is Susan?”

Greg’s shifted in his seat, looking even more uncertain.

“She’s good. Things are good between us. Listen, Mycroft, I’m sorry about how I ended things. I really shouldn’t have done it like that.”

“Please don’t fret over it. I understand completely. I’m alright, I promise you.”

Greg looked at him beseechingly.

“Are you? You’re not just putting on a brave front like you do? You can tell me to fuck off if you want. I’d deserve it.”

“No, you don’t.” Perhaps a little. “I’m the one who pushed you to consider other options, to find a relationship that can provide you with everything that you want. I want you to be happy. Are you happy?”

Greg hesitated, but he nodded.

“Yeah, I’m happy. I miss you, though. I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch as much as I said I would.”

“That’s alright. You have a busy life and you’re building a new relationship. That’s time consuming. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

Greg didn’t look fully convinced. Mycroft got the feeling that Greg wished to be punished for what he’d done. For Mycroft to shout and rail at him, to make him feel like slime under his heel for leaving him so abruptly. Mycroft would do no such thing. Greg didn’t deserve that, no matter how much he decided to recriminate himself. Or how much it relieved Mycroft, selfish as he was, for Greg to believe that he’d done something wrong, that he didn’t simply think of Mycroft as a fun diversion on the road to happiness. Their relationship had been important to him, too, even if they couldn’t make things work. 

They spoke a little more often since then, although still not as easily as before. Greg wouldn’t mention Susan unless Mycroft did. Their relationship continued to develop well. By the year, Greg was considering proposing. He didn’t say so, but a wistful look at a jewelers as they walked down the street on the way to a café for what had become a monthly lunch expressed his desires keenly enough. Mycroft had turned away at the sight, his previous good mood souring as the pain twisted in his gut, not blunted despite the passage of time. 

“Do you think you may have ever felt the sort of love they show in films?” Mycroft asked Sherlock on one of his visits to his flat. 

Sherlock never seemed terribly pleased to see him at first, but he stopped complaining after a minute. Sometimes, he even drew Mycroft into a deduction game, which Mycroft always resisted, as it made Sherlock so cross when he lost. When Mycroft asked his question, a non sequitur after commenting on the appalling mess that was Sherlock’s tiny kitchen, Sherlock turned to him with a startled frown and piercing eyes that made Mycroft shudder inside, regretting speaking at all.

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock said. “Is this about Victor? I didn’t feel that for him.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further as he scanned Mycroft’s person, not that there were any relevant clues for him to find. “No, this is about you.” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Are you… Are you in love with someone?”

Mycroft frowned, pursing his lips.

“No. I am still confused about the concept of romantic love, so I can’t be.”

“Yet you’re questioning it. So you’re not completely sure.”

Mycroft sat down on Sherlock’s sorry excuse for a sofa and crossed his legs at the knee, looking out the window with a resigned sigh.

“I suppose. I am uncertain. Yet I’m not sure that I’m experiencing anything differently, only more intensely, so I don’t think it’s likely.”

Sherlock sat down in his desk chair. 

“Maybe you’re feeling something else, then. I didn’t think I’d ever see you like this. You’ve never been interested in any kind of close relationship.”

Mycroft shrugged, idly twirling his umbrella on the floor, fingertips on the handle. 

“I’m surprised myself.”

“Who is it?”

Should Mycroft tell him? Probably. But Sherlock wouldn’t be pleased about the subterfuge, and was there even a point in telling him when Greg was no longer sharing his bed?

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, ignoring the prick of guilt in his gut. “He’s moved on. He wants all the trappings of a nuclear family, which I can’t give him, so it matters little what I feel for him, really. I don’t know why I even brought it up.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands, pensive. Silence stretched between them. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Sherlock said after a time, glancing up at Mycroft. A thin smile glimmered on Mycroft’s lips.

“Thank you,” he said. Taking a firmer grasp of his umbrella, he stood up. “I should go.”

Before Sherlock got restless with his presence and kicked him out. But Sherlock jumped up and dove for the cupboard, saying,

“Let’s play checkers.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him, confused.

“Checkers?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pulled out a battered, dusty box and put it on his desk. “You do remember how to play, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. You want to play with me? We haven’t played a board game in years.”

“Yes. Three years and a month, to be exact. You beat me the last time. I want a rematch.”

Sherlock’s face didn’t show anything but cocky rivalry, but it was so obvious what he was doing. Gratitude swelled in Mycroft’s chest as he set his umbrella by the wall to open the checkers box.

“You’re on,” he said. 

Checkers was followed by chess, which was followed by Operation, of all things, but Mycroft’s objection was only half-hearted and they both knew it. Mycroft had been supposed to have a meeting that afternoon, but he postponed it for the next day so that he could stay. Sherlock hadn’t suffered his presence for this long in ages, and he wasn’t about to forfeit it for some appointment with a cabinet minister, important or not.

Greg informed him of his engagement by phone a couple of weeks later, likely to spare him having to school his expression in public Mycroft appreciated this. It was much easier to only have to dissemble his voice to wish him heartfelt congratulations. He was happy for Greg, truly. His desire for Greg’s happiness was only superseded by Sherlock’s own. Yet the sting of Greg finding that happiness with someone else, while dulled by time, stung still. Another solitary night of wine and recorded symphonies ensued, although this time Mycroft managed to curb his desire to drink after he’d gotten tipsy. He decided to abstain from drink for the foreseeable future just in case. Sherlock wasn’t the only one in the family with a propensity towards addiction, and this was one road that Mycroft didn’t wish to go down. He also threw away his cigarettes, although he caved and purchased new ones during a particularly bad day.

Greg got married on a Sunday. Mycroft congratulated him on the phone right before boarding a flight for New York, taking advantage of the long flight to indulge in sleeping pills and doze Greg’s wedding day away. Work kept him too busy for the next few days to devote more than the stray thought to Greg’s nuptials before needing to push them away for something that he could actually control. He had sent them a present as Greg’s friend. Greg left him a thank you voicemail. Mycroft may have listened to it more than once.

A couple of months passed before they renewed their lunches. Mycroft was sure that Greg suspected his protestations of work to be excuses, but he let him get away with them. When Mycroft saw him again, Greg was a happily married man in the flush of his new life, filled with love for his wife and hope for the future. Yet he reiterated that he wanted Mycroft to be part of that future as well. They settled back into their previous routine, trying for biweekly lunches now. Mycroft lifted his proscription against drinking while making sure to moderate himself, and learned to accept the position that Greg now had in his life. As time went by, the sting grew less. He found himself being happier and less saddened by Greg’s satisfaction in his marriage.

Until that satisfaction turned sour, that is, for only a year and a half passed before the promise of future joy was under threat. Children, the reason above all others why Greg had been compelled to look elsewhere for companionship, might not be in the picture. Greg tried to stay hopeful as he confessed that they were seeing fertility doctors, yet his dread that it might not work loomed large in his anxious eyes. Mycroft acutely felt his pain. While he was not a fan of children, the thought of small versions of his kind and noble detective wasn’t disagreeable. And if Greg couldn’t have children, what had been the point of all this? But Mycroft mustn’t be so selfish. There might have been other reasons why Greg preferred not to keep him as a primary companion. Susan was certainty more suited to him in more respects than just this. As to his own feelings, Mycroft concluded that they weren’t so romantic, after all, and that he had only been confused because his particular dynamic with Greg had been so new to him. That was all. He hoped, both in word and thought, that the difficulties that Greg and Susan faced weren’t insurmountable. 

Sherlock, at least, continued to improve. One of his past clients had invited him to rent a flat at a building that she had just purchased. The location was ideal. Baker Street, right in the heart of central London. An old Victorian home had been divided into three flats. The client, Martha Hudson, would take the one on the ground floor, while Sherlock had his pick of the other two. Mycroft had done a thorough search into her background as soon as he was informed that his little brother had high tailed it to Florida to recover sufficient evidence to condemn Mrs. Hudson’s husband to be executed. She was around their mother’s age and was a cheerful, kindly sort. Her past was checkered, to say the least, but evidence suggested that she had been as ignorant of the true extent of her husband’s business as she claimed. This, however, didn’t keep her from pocketing a substantial portion of his illegal gains after the trial was over, which was how she was able to afford central London property, a tasteful Aston Martin, and to charge Sherlock a pittance to rent a flat from her. 

As soon as she moved to London, it was apparent that she and Sherlock had grown attached to each other during the case. They had visited each other in the seven months since, and nothing less than sincere affection would motivate a landlady to charge her tenant less than half of what the property was worth. Mycroft had been prepared to beg Sherlock to let him pay for the flat, as the spacious accommodations and pleasant location would improve his mood immensely, but there was no need. Sherlock could foot the bill himself with those generous rates. 

Mycroft accompanied Sherlock to the building after he had decided to take the first floor flat and required Mycroft’s assistance in relocating. Rather, he wanted Mycroft to pay for a moving crew and would have been fine if Mycroft absented himself, yet he knew that Mycroft would be taking a look for himself, both at the flat and Mrs. Hudson. No kidnapping this time. He wouldn’t do that to an older lady whom Sherlock genuinely cared for. There really was no need for Sherlock to threaten him in case he so much as considered it. Sherlock must have warned Mrs. Hudson about him, for there was a knowing look in her eye when Sherlock introduced him.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is my brother Mycroft. Mycroft, this is Mrs. Hudson. Do feel free to ignore him, Mrs. Hudson. I do.”

She rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s petty manner, but in an affectionate way. Sherlock left for the kitchen to unpack his chemistry equipment.

“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said, extending his hand. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Sherlock is very excited to move in.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” She smiled courteously. “Sherlock has told me a lot about you, although I’m not sure which parts are true or not.”

“It’s all true!” Sherlock shouted from the kitchen. 

Oh, for God’s sake. 

“It’s likely to be a mix of both,” Mycroft admitted. “I dread to think what he’s told you.”

Mrs. Hudson waved a hand. 

“Oh, I won’t bother you with that. I prefer to form my own impressions. Although I think that he was exaggerating when he called you the British government.”

Sherlock popped out of the kitchen like a Jack in the box. 

“He is the British government,” he said.

“That’s a blatant exaggeration,” Mycroft protested.

“No, it isn’t. Don’t let him fool you, Mrs. Hudson. He lies for a living.”

“So do you.”

Sherlock scoffed and dove back into the kitchen. 

“I hold a minor position in the British government,” Mycroft said, turning back to Mrs. Hudson.

“Liar!” Sherlock called out. 

Mycroft sighed. 

“Alright,” he said begrudgingly. “My unofficial post is a bit more involved, but I’m afraid that I can’t give out any details as to what that is.”

“That’s alright,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’m used to secrecy. Sherlock himself isn’t forthcoming at the best of times.”

“Are you sure that his tenancy won’t be too onerous for you? He can be quite a handful.”

“So are you,” Sherlock yelled.

“Oh, it’s no bother,” Mrs. Hudson said nonchalantly, acting as if there were nothing unusual about her tenant yelling insults across the flat. “I know what he’s like. It’s hard not to after the first two minutes.”

Sherlock appeared again.

“Tell him what you told me,” he said. “That I shouldn’t hide who I am.”

“I’ve never told you to do that,” Mycroft said. “Just that you should mind your manners and exercise a little common courtesy.”

“Same thing.”

Mrs. Hudson looked awkward by the whole thing.

“Well, dear,” she told Sherlock with an expressing of someone who knew that what they were about to say wouldn’t be well received. “I do think that you should try to be little more polite to people.”

Sherlock puffed up with affronted pride. Mycroft braced himself for an explosion of anger and victimization, but Sherlock only pouted, narrowing his eyes in displeasure, and sank back into the kitchen, muttering. Mycroft stared at the space that he used to occupy in shock. 

“That was unusual,” he murmured.

“What was?” Mrs. Hudson asked, keeping her voice just as low. “I’ve seen him get cross plenty of times.”

“Yes, but he’s never dropped that subject before. Not with me, anyway.”

“Well, you are his brother. It’s harder for him to agree with you.”

“Impossible, I should say.”

It seemed that Sherlock respected someone’s authority, after all. Fancy that. Mrs. Hudson’s age and nurturing demeanor were probably largely responsible. She had a maternal air about her despite not having any children of her own. Perhaps she was like Greg, desiring them, but having been unable to have them for one reason or another. Yet there was still hope for Greg.

Though not with Susan, it would seem. Two months ago, not even two and a half years into their marriage, Greg called him in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, distressed, his breath short with barely suppressed hurt.

“Can I stay over at your place tonight?” he asked. 

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “What happened?”

What Mycroft was actually asking was “why”, for the “what” was obvious. Greg had some altercation with his wife and either had felt compelled to sleep elsewhere for the night or she had kicked him out, but the particular angry tone in his voice suggested that it was the former.

“Susan is cheating on me,” Greg said. 

Protective fury ran through Mycroft. How had Susan dared be unfaithful to this wonderful man, who had done nothing but shower her with love and support? 

“You’re sure?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah.” Mycroft’s heart ached at the pain in Greg’s voice. “With her tennis instructor, of all people. We just had an ugly row about it. Are you home? I can go to a hotel if you’re not.”

“No need. I’m at the office, but I’ll give you the security codes so you can get in. Please make yourself at home. Take anything you want from the fridge.”

“Do you even have anything in the fridge?”

Right.

“Perhaps not.”

“I’ll go shopping, then. I’ll cook something. I need a distraction. How long until you get home?”

“I’m not sure. Three hours, at least.”

“Okay. No rush.”

His despairing tone belied his words. Mycroft wrapped up his business in two hours and twenty-two minutes and headed home, instructing his driver to go as quickly as he considered safe. Mycroft found Greg in the small, unofficial dining room next to the kitchen where they used to eat when Greg was a regular fixture in his house, staring balefully at a half-eaten plate of mashed potatoes, mushy peas, and steak. He jerked at the sound of Mycroft’s footsteps and looked up. His desperate relief at seeing Mycroft awakened every ounce of the affection that Mycroft had sought to bury deep inside. He yearned to hold Greg close and cherish him like he deserved, assuring him that no one would ever hurt him again.

“Hey,” Greg said weakly, lips that should have smiled grimacing instead. “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

“The day turned out shorter than I thought.”

Mycroft rushed to him and pulled up a chair, sitting closer to him than was strictly necessary. He wasn’t traditionally built for comfort, but he reached for Greg without hesitation, placing a hand on his upper arm and squeezing lightly in reassurance. 

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

Mycroft’s anger at Greg’s wife sharpened his voice, but he didn’t care, not when Greg looked bone deep weary and could barely muster the energy to look up from the table. He sighed, a sad, dreary thing, and wiped his face with his hand.

“I caught her on the phone with him. I had gone out to get groceries but forgot the list, so I came back sooner than she expected. She hung up before I could hear anything, but did that thing where she pretended that she was talking to someone else before she did. But I heard her tone change, just for a second, from when I came in the house. And she looked guilty as sin. She thought she could lie to me and get away with it. Christ.” Greg dropped his head in his hands. “She has been getting away with it for two months. Two fucking months. I confronted her. Wouldn’t let it go until she finally caved. I don’t want to go over everything we shouted at each other, but it was bad. She said I’m not around enough. That I’m not trying hard enough with the fertility treatments. That I’m always at work. She married a cop. What did she expect? I mean, I try to be home as much as I can. I do. But I don’t have a nine to five job. I just don’t. Then she complained that I’m not ambitious enough. That if I went up in the ranks, had more authority, I could control my hours more. She’s always known I’m not interested in becoming captain or anything like that. I’m happy where I am. I don’t need to deal with more political bollocks that I already do. And I am trying with the treatments. Where the fuck does she get off saying that? And how is any of that justification for her fucking her trainer at the club? How? What, is he going to get her pregnant? I’m not the one with the fucking problem. God.”

Greg dropped his head on the table, his groan reverberating across the surface. Mycroft moved in closer, spreading his arm across Greg’s shoulders, then stopped himself. How much closeness was too much? They didn’t touch apart from hugs and hands on arms these days. Even this much might be overstepping. He began retracting his arm.

“Leave it there,” Greg moaned. 

Mycroft froze.

“It helps,” Greg continued. 

Mycroft put his arm back down. He rubbed Greg’s shoulder with his thumb, the motion instinctual. 

“It goes without saying that I’m infuriated on your behalf,” he said.

Greg snorted, a humorless huff.

“It’s still nice to hear you say it.”

“What do you need?” 

Greg sighed and lifted his head, rubbing his face with an expression of such beaten despair that Mycroft’s heart ached.

“Somewhere to sleep. If I even can sleep. Probably for longer than tonight. Distraction. I know action moves aren’t your thing, but I may have to commandeer your telly and gorge myself on some. Anything to numb my brain.”

“That’s alright. I can endure some loud films. I’ll abstain from commenting on their quality, as well.”

Greg’s laugh was less strangled this time, a hint of that smile that Mycroft adored glimmering on his lips for the merest moment. 

“Nah, that’s okay. Complain all you want. You can distract me, too.”

“Are you sure? You used to mind immensely. I don’t want to upset you further.”

“You’re fine, mate.”

Greg grabbed Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. The touch made Mycroft’s breath tremble in his throat. If he hadn’t already been sitting down, his knees would have gone weak. They hadn’t held hands in years, not even for a handshake. He swallowed, summoning all his willpower to get himself under control and not betray how much he had yearned for a gesture, any gesture, that indicated that they were closer than the sort of friends who only met monthly while living in the same city, and didn’t touch outside of a socially approved manner. His love for Greg (for love it was, if perhaps not the type that he had suspected) hadn’t withered at all in the years since they had last kissed. It had altered, yes, but grown more fully, more inescapable and necessary. More certain that Greg was a key part of his life without which he would be irreparably weakened and diminished. 

So he watched action films with him, swallowing the mediocre writing and ridiculous premises, criticizing openly to make Greg happy but keeping mum during sequences that he could tell Greg truly enjoyed. They sat at an appropriate distance on the sofa, but Mycroft kept a close watch on him from the corner of his eye. Greg sat leaning against the left armrest, eyes fixed on the screen, hands jittery on his lap and his face, never smiling or laughing as hard as he normally would, but desperately seeking the distraction nonetheless. He had been holding up surprisingly well since they relocated from the dining table. Mycroft dreaded the inevitable breakdown that would ensue eventually. 

It came sooner than he thought. During one of the obligatory romantic scenes, as the male protagonist had a tender scene with his girlfriend, who had just been teasing him for trying to rob all the credit for a joint venture, Greg’s breath hitched and his eyes watered. Soon, tears spilled down his cheeks and he sank his face in his hands, fierce sobs shaking his body. Mycroft looked away, debating which comforting tactic he should employ. He had been going over some in his head, yet now that the moment was here, he wasn’t certain which one he should chose. Greg had appreciated Mycroft touching him before, but he hadn’t been crying then. Perhaps Greg would prefer privacy under these circumstances. But if Mycroft simply left, Greg might take it ill and think him uncaring. There was only one way to proceed, really, just like there had been before.

“What do you need from me, Greg?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and comforting.

Greg grabbed blindly for him, hand landing on Mycroft’s chest before gripping his arm.

“Can you just hold me, please?” Greg stammered, voice pained and short. “Like old times.”

“Of course. Come here.”

Pausing the movie, Mycroft placed his hands on Greg’s shoulders and drew Greg to him. He came eagerly, folding his legs under him to half curl onto Mycroft, burying his head in the curve of Mycroft’s neck and shoulder, wrapping his arms fiercely around him. His tears soaked through Mycroft’s shirt. Mycroft shut his eyes, his own breath hitching at the palpable sensation of Greg’s pain. He mentally cursed Susan into oblivion. His right hand rose automatically, seeking Greg’s hair, to dig his fingers in its softness and stroke him like he had done so many times before. Nothing had ever soothed Greg as much as Mycroft rubbing his hair. Yet it felt too intimate, even now. Too close to what they had once been yet would never be again. Mycroft couldn’t take that liberty, especially not when Greg was pining for someone else. He dropped his hand, rubbing Greg’s back instead, murmuring that everything would be alright. 

“You will be happy again. It hurts now, but it will pass. I promise. You will be alright.”

Greg clung to him even more tightly as he spoke. It took a long while for his sobs to lessen and fade into exhausted inhales. He loosened his grip, yet remained on Mycroft’s shoulder for a bit longer. 

“Thanks,” he murmured after a while, breath hot and broken on Mycroft’s skin before he pulled away, rubbing the tears off his face. 

Regret stung inside Mycroft at Greg’s retreat even as he was glad to see that he had calmed down, even if it was only a temporary reprieve.

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “I’m always here for you. You know that.”

Greg gave him a broken smile. 

“Yeah, I know. You’re a good friend. I am grateful, you know, that you didn’t tell me to fuck off after I left you.” Greg turned the remote over in his hands in an endless cycle. “I’m still sorry about that.”

Mycroft sighed.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been feeling guilty about that all these years. I told you, there’s no need.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Greg shrugged. “Just a little, though. You don’t need to put yourself through all this.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Why was Greg bringing this up now? Why make himself feel worse when he was already so low?

Oh. Of course. That was the point. He was spiraling in self-recrimination and doubt, which demanded more of the same, latching onto any past shame to tighten the noose of self-hatred around his neck.

“It’s not your fault that Susan cheated on you.”

“I know that. I’m not an idiot.”

Mycroft paused, letting the sudden jolt of Greg’s heated words pass. Greg dropped his head into his hands, sighing.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I know what you’re trying to do. And that I feel like shit, so I’m self-harming by trying to feel even more like shit, but that was my fault. With us. And I haven’t been home as much as I promised when we got married. She didn’t have to fucking cheat on me, but… We’ve had our problems, but every couple has problems, right? We had problems. But we couldn’t work those out. What if I can’t work them out with Susan? Do I even want to after this? I don’t know. I don’t even fucking know. God.” Greg dropped his head in his hands again. “I love her. Even now. I can’t help it. I hate her but I love her. I don’t want a divorce, but what else am I supposed to do? I can’t stay with her, can I? She was sorry, but why do it in the first place? How am I supposed to trust her now?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid I’m out of my depth in this area so I don’t know what to advice you.”

“You wouldn’t stay with her, though, would you? Not with someone who cheated on you.”

Mycroft lowered his head, hesitating before speaking the words of confirmation that Greg both wished and didn’t wish to hear.

“No, I would not.”

Greg sighed and dropped his head again. 

“I didn’t think so.”

He rolled his shoulders and sank back against the cushions, shutting his eyes with a weary grimace. 

“I’m so fucking tired,’ he said. 

“Do you wish to sleep? I can set up one of the spare bedrooms.”

“Yeah. I think so. Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Due to the large size of the house, Mycroft had several spare bedrooms, none of which had ever been used. He chose one close to his own bedroom, yet at a suitable distance should Greg desire the extra privacy. He had brushed off Greg’s offer to help him make up the bed, needing a few moments alone and the mentally clearing benefits of a menial task. His emotions had been a twisted knot since Greg’s call, hours of cold percolation and doubt. A divorce would devastate Greg. Mycroft had lived in a state of quiet jealousy over Susan, yet he could not wish such misery upon Greg. But what choice had he now? Was Greg likely to give her another chance? She didn’t deserve one. There were others whom Greg could grow to love, and with whom Greg could have the children he wanted so keenly. There was no need for him to subject himself to living in doubt with Susan’s infidelity. Ether way, he wouldn’t return to Mycroft, not like that. This was the closest their friendship would ever get. 

Mycroft gave Greg a sleeping tablet to help him rest, then took one himself after an hour’s worth of rolling around in bed produced no reprieve from the turbulent scenarios and glimmers of hope spiraling in his head. The next morning, he made breakfast. He wasn’t a fair hand at cooking like Greg was, so it was a frustrating endeavor of false starts and burnt eggs thrown in the bin, but he managed something edible in the end. Except that he wound up eating his portion alone, for Greg didn’t stir outside his bedroom until nearly noon. Mycroft put down the book that he was only trying to read at the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, and left the sitting room to meet Greg at the bottom of the stairs. He was still in his pajamas, knit, light blue trousers and a white t-shirt, rumpled from the long hours pressed against the bed. He was smoothing down his messy hair, a captivating sight which Mycroft would have enjoyed if Greg’s face weren’t drawn in abject misery and loneliness. There was no need to ask how he was. His hunched posture and dejected “Morning” made it plain.

“Are you hungry?” Mycroft asked instead. 

Greg nodded.

“I made breakfast.” Mycroft began leading him to the kitchen.

Greg somehow looked crestfallen “You did? Shit, I should have come down earlier. I’m sorry.”

“Greg, please stop apologizing for everything. I don’t blame you for having a lie-in while feeling terrible. I knew there was a possibility that you wouldn’t be able to come down right after I made it. I can reheat it easily enough and make you fresh eggs.”

They entered the kitchen.

“Okay. I can make them myself. You don’t have to fuss about me. You’ve done enough.”

“I’m not fussing. And of course I haven’t done enough. You’re my friend and you need me. Now sit down while I make you your eggs. Do you want tea or coffee?”

With a soft sigh of defeat, Greg sat at the table.

“Tea, please. Thanks.”

Mycroft placed the kettle under the tap to fill it.

“Of course. There’s no need to thank me.”

“I do.”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder. Greg regarded with a soft, grateful expression. Mycroft’s breath stilled in his throat. The sudden urge to kiss Greg and hold him until he laughed in joy seized him like a noose around his throat.

“Thank you,” Greg said.

Mycroft mentally shook himself out of his sudden reverie.

“You’re very welcome.”


	17. Chapter 17

Greg ate a sufficient amount that morning, if a bit less than his usual intake. Susan had called him an hour before, wishing to speak in person so that she could apologize properly. Mycroft wasn’t enthused by the prospect, but Greg chose to go. Of course. Greg wouldn’t terminate his marriage so easily, even under these circumstances. Mycroft couldn’t quite comprehend his motivations, but romantic relationships were outside of his area of expertise. As where the hurt feelings that ensued when one’s partner was unfaithful. He had always been glad to not have to worry about this sort of thing, but his lack of experience did have drawbacks when it came to managing certain situations, such as this one. Not that this was up to him to manage. He had no power or authority here. It was entirely Greg’s business. Mycroft’s role was exclusively to provide Greg with whatever he required, be it material or emotional. That was all. 

Greg went home. He returned some hours later with a suitcase and a stuffed duffel bag.

“We’re talking,” Greg said, looking no less dejected than before, “but need some time apart.”

Greg stayed for a week before returning to Susan, but he slept on the sofa, not their bed. He would have been much more comfortable in Mycroft’s guest room, but it wasn’t Mycroft’s place to point this out. They tried couple’s counseling for three months. Then Susan cheated again, once more with her tennis instructor, whom she claimed to not have seen again since the last incident. She was the one to leave their house that time. Mycroft was both glad and regretful of it. She was the party at fault. Of course she should be the one to go. But it also meant that Greg had no need to stay at Mycroft’s house again, which was regrettable.

Mycroft was being selfish again. Greg should be able to remain at his home, even if the wreck of his marriage had tainted the location with memories, both sad and bittersweet. He planned on moving out once the lease ran out in seven months if he didn’t reconcile with Susan, which he didn’t think was possible. Only a week before Mycroft received that furious phone call from Sherlock accusing him of malicious lying, Greg had confessed that they were heading for divorce. Mycroft put him in contact with an excellent family solicitor within his budget, as Greg refused to let Mycroft pay for anything, even for the groceries that Greg had bought for both of them. 

Was his divorce the reason why Greg had told Sherlock about their previous connection? No, that didn’t vibe with Sherlock’s amused comment about the conversation being “fun”. If Greg was considering trying to get back together with Mycroft in a romantic or sexual sense, he wasn’t likely to have told Sherlock before Mycroft himself, would he? To commiserate with a friend, perhaps? But he had other friends. Greg had known that Sherlock would react exactly as he had. Hurt and petulant, even though he had backed off a bit at the end. But there would be further repercussions. Sherlock’s grievances hadn’t been unwarranted. Mycroft would have to issue a better apology later. In person, if Sherlock would suffer his presence. 

His mobile beeped with a text message. Mycroft reached for his phone quicker than he ever did for a work text. 

_I’m on my way. Just left Sherlock’s flat._

Mycroft sagged for a second in relief before tensing again. He was being ridiculous. Surely, there had been no malicious intention on Greg’s part, and he wouldn’t be considering rekindling anything with him right after deciding to get a divorce. Greg was still very hurt and in love with his soon to be ex-wife. He wasn’t about to use Mycroft for a rebound, not even in his emotionally fragile state. 

Twenty-three minutes later, Greg let himself in through the front door. Mycroft went to meet him, unable to take the anxiety of waiting for a clear answer anymore.

“I know,” Greg said with an apologetic grimace as he hung up his coat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just told him like that. But, in my defense, it was actually John’s fault. Sort of. Okay, it was still my fault, but Sherlock picked it up from his reaction.”

“Greg, what on Earth are you talking about? John’s reaction to what?”

Greg hesitated, looking at him nervously, like he had something he sorely wished to tell him but wasn’t sure if Mycroft would take it well or ill. Mycroft frowned, concerned.

“Greg? What is it? Is something wrong?”

“No,” Greg said quickly. “I don’t think so, anyway. It’s up to you.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together.

“Could you please start making sense? Just tell me what it is.”

Greg hesitated again. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“For God’s sake. Stop looking at me like that and just tell me. I promise I won’t be angry, if that’s what you need to hear.”

“Anger isn’t the reaction I’m afraid of,” Greg muttered. “I’ll tell you, okay? In the sitting room. I need to sit down.”

Greg moved past him, forcing Mycroft to follow.

“Fine,” he said. “But no more stalling, please.”

“Deal.”

Mycroft’s worry had turned to dread. There were no clues to be gleaned from Greg’s appearance save for a dog hair on his trousers, which he could have acquired by brushing up against one on the street. A husky or something similar, given the length and color. His hair was a bit disheveled. From running his hand through it too much, perhaps? Just one more indicator of worry, so no new information there. Once in the sitting room, Greg stopped before the sofa, but didn’t sit. His back was tense, shoulders hunched, face drawn in intense nervousness. The worried knot in Mycroft’s stomach tightened. He went to Greg, placing a hand on his arm.

“You can tell me,” he said softly. “Whatever it is. Please.”

Greg lowered his head and sucked in a deep breath. He raised his head again, squaring his shoulders and bracing himself. But for what? 

“Right,” he said, turning toward Mycroft, meeting his eyes so tentatively that Mycroft almost begged him to stop being scared. “Sorry, I’m just nervous. They said that you would be okay with it, but it’s still… I’ve thought about telling you so many times. I’ve really wanted to. It’s just…”

Mycroft spoke as gently as before, not wanting to spook Greg 

“Tell me what?”

Greg sucked in another breath and met Mycroft’s eyes.

“I’m a werewolf.”

Mycroft stared. He played back Greg’s words in his mind. No, he had heard them correctly.

“A werewolf.”

His words were slow, deliberate, begging for confirmation that he hadn’t just heard wrong. Did he want to have heard wrong? That would be easier. It would be a lot easier if Greg wasn’t a supernatural creature whose existence still didn’t make any logical sense according to every scientific scenario that Mycroft had devised. 

“Mycroft?”

Greg was frowning at him, studying his face, his hands hanging uncertainly at his sides, his right half raised, as if debating whether to reach for him. 

“Are you okay? It’s just me. This doesn’t change anything of who I am. You were fine with John. That’s what he said. Why don’t you sit down?”

“I don’t need to sit down. I’m alright. I just…”

Mycroft’s breath was altered, making his voice too high and jittery. Greg’s face pinched and he took a step back, his head lowering, back hunching. He was trying to make himself small, to act submissive. He was scared. Oh God, Greg was scared of him.

“Greg, I would never hurt you. Never. Please tell me you know that.”

It took no effort at all to curb the shock from his voice to reassure Greg. So what if he wasn’t human? John wasn’t human and he was an admirable partner. Nothing had changed about Greg in the last few minutes. He was still the same man who Mycroft loved. The only thing that had been altered was Mycroft’s perception of one aspect of him. Greg raised his eyes again, tense, but he nodded, breathing slowly through his nose. 

“I know,” he said. “I trust you. I’ve just never told a human before, and you have so much disdain for anything supernatural.”

“I know better now, I assure you. I’m merely surprised, that’s all. Were you truly afraid that I might treat you ill?”

Greg looked away for a second, betraying his response. Mycroft raised his hand to his own face, turning away for a second in shame.

“It’s not because of you,” Greg said, taking a step forward. “It’s a tricky business, okay? Some people have told humans they trusted and had it blow up in their faces. Sometimes the people you love are the ones that betray you. I hoped that wouldn’t be you. I really did. I really do trust you, Mycroft. I’m sorry. I never wanted you to feel bad.”

“It’s alright. I understand.” 

Mycroft did reach for him this time, touching his arms, wishing that he could cradle his face instead and kiss Greg’s guilt and nerves away.

“Your fear was entirely justified,” Mycroft said. “John was afraid of the same. But I would never do anything to hurt you.”

A relieved, tentative smile jerked on Greg’s lips.

“I know. Thank you. I’m really lucky to have you as a friend.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

Mycroft dropped his hands before he did something that he would regret. Now was not the time. It would never be the time, not again. Greg’s revealing the truth of their relationship to Sherlock had nothing to do with him. He looked down at the hair that still clung to Greg’s jeans. Not dog hair, after all. Mycroft’s breath shivered at the realization.

“Is that yours?” Mycroft asked.

Greg followed his gaze and plucked off the hair, holding it up with a embarrassed air.

“Oh. Yeah. I thought I’d gotten them all off. I changed pretty quickly back into my clothes.”

“You changed in Sherlock’s flat?”

Greg looked down again.

“Yeah. I wasn’t planning to. Things just went in that direction. Are you sure you’re okay with this? You look better than before, but you’re a little hard to read sometimes. I was expecting you to be more freaked out still.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to be embarrassed.

“Like I was with John? I suppose they told you the whole, embarrassing tale.”

“No, just that you were a little freaked out, but that you were fine with it in the end.”

Mycroft found himself crossing his arms before he was aware of it, a defensive, weak gesture, but the hell with it. 

“I had little warning save for Sherlock implying that John and the seal that saved him were the same being mere moments before John transformed in front of me. I was hardly prepared for it. Although, to be fair, I wouldn’t have believed it otherwise. But it wasn’t under duress, in case there’s any doubt in your mind. I had agreed to let the matter go. He chose to show me. He had every right not to after the way I had treated him until that point.”

“They mentioned that you kidnapped him, too. You really have to stop doing that.”

“He had no record past twelve years ago and appeared in the nick of time to tend to my brother. He was a suspicious character. Possibly dangerous. I had to make sure that he wasn’t.”

Understanding came over Greg’s face.

“I get it. I would have been suspicious, too. So did Sherlock convince you to let him go?”

“He did.”

Mycroft explained what had happened that day from when he’d first had John brought to him to when John changed into a sea creature before his disbelieving eyes.

“I’m afraid I have been overwhelming him with questions since, including about werewolves, which is why I haven’t done the same to you yet. But… I don’t know if this is proper for me to ask.”

A smile jerked on Greg’s face.

“You want to see me transform.”

“Only if it’s alright with you.”

Greg’s smile softened.

“Of course it is.

Greg reached out and squeezed Mycroft’s upper arm. Mycroft’s heart leaped at the touch and his breath caught in his throat. It took all his effort to not to show an external reaction.

“I’m going to go change in the other room,” Greg said. “I don’t like doing it in front of people.”

“Alright.”

Greg left the room. Mycroft followed him with his gaze the whole way, imagining what he might look like in wolf form. It was probable that his coloring would be similar. A salt and pepper mix wouldn’t look amiss on a wolf. There hadn’t been any signs, had there? Not before now. Greg had been so careful to keep his secret under wraps, not that Mycroft would have ever suspected the possibility. His skepticism had been Greg’s shield against discovery. God, why had Mycroft frozen up like that when Greg revealed the truth to him? That fright in his face, the doubt that Mycroft might actually reject him, or worse, have him whisked away to be experimented on just like John had feared… How could Mycroft have let him suspect that Mycroft could treat him so poorly for even a second? Shock or no, he had erred and must make up for it. Yet the surprise still hadn’t left his system. His best friend, his only friend, the man who had shared his bed, who he held and comforted, who he loved, wasn’t human. Sherlock had known from the beginning that John wasn’t human, so he’d only had to adjust to the reality of shapeshifters, not to John himself being different. For Mycroft it was the opposite. Mycroft owed John even more than he’d known, for if he hadn’t already shocked Mycroft into incoherence with his own transformation, Greg might have never told him. And even if he had, he would have reacted poorly and scared Greg even more than he had today.

Soft footsteps padded on the floor, accompanied by the tapping of sharp claws on the floorboards. Under any other circumstances, Mycroft would have deduced that a dog was approaching. It being a werewolf would have been unthinkable. Greg, wolf Greg, poked his head through the door, shy, shifting on his feet. Four feet. His coloring was the same. A little more white on his muzzle and a little more black on his ears, but the same. Mycroft would have recognized Greg’s beautiful hair anywhere, even on a wolf. And those eyes gazing at him with a silent plea for acceptance, warm, brown eyes that he knew so intimately, how could they be any other than Greg’s eyes?

“Please do come in,” Mycroft said, breathless, rushing forward even as he encouraged Greg to enter the room like the welcome guest he was and not an intruder who needed to hide. 

Greg stepped inside slowly, eyes never leaving Mycroft’s own. Mycroft sucked in a breath. He was gazing into the eyes of a wolf, and that wolf was Greg Lestrade. How was this possible? He crouched down and reached out a hand, leaving it hovering between them. John had explained that werewolves were as physically affectionate as selkies and dogs, especially with their friends, so Greg shouldn’t mind, but Mycroft must still ask.

“Is this alright?”

Greg stepped forward and rubbed his face against Mycroft’s hand. His fur was stiff and thick, yet soft. Mycroft slowly moved his fingers to stroke his muzzle. It was less threatening to go underneath a dog’s face and not above. Greg wasn’t a dog, but Mycroft had nothing else to go on. Greg leaned into his touch, so it was acceptable.

“Did you do this with Sherlock?”

It wasn’t his place to ask, yet the words were out of Mycroft’s mouth before he gave them much thought. Greg nodded. Sherlock would have welcomed the physical affection from Greg in this canine form. Mycroft always found it strange that Sherlock hadn’t gotten another dog after Redbeard, since he loved dogs so. But perhaps it wasn’t so strange after all. His grief over Redbeard’s death had been quite acute. Mycroft had worried for him at the time. 

Greg whined and prodded Mycroft with a foreleg. Mycroft had unconsciously stopped stroking him. Interesting. This version of Greg welcomed touches even more than the human one did. At least, for the last few years.

“Apologies,” Mycroft said, renewing his petting more vigorously than before. “This isn’t taking too much liberty then, is it?”

Greg shook his head and emitted a low, canine hum, somewhere between a howl and a whine. He pressed forward against Mycroft’s legs and sat down, tail wagging. Mycroft smiled, tension draining away, yet not completely. He felt that he was on fragile ground. He should have asked Greg earlier what sort of behavior was permissible while he was in this form. This was certainly more contact than what they usually engaged in, given the petting. 

“I’m aware that you’re not a dog, but do I understand correctly that I’m allowed to pet you to the same extent as if you were one? I don’t want to overstep.”

Greg nodded, tapping Mycroft’s foot with his paw. 

“Alright. Let’s relocate to the sofa, shall we? My knees are no longer capable of staying in this position for long.”

Said knees protested as he stood up, joints stiff as he ambled to the sofa. Those would be aching for a while, but it was worth it. Greg followed him and hopped on the sofa beside him. Mycroft stared. His hair would get all over the cushions. Mycroft would have to clean them off with a lint brush, and it would be near impossible to get them all. Greg seemed to divine his thought, for he jumped off and gazed at Mycroft imploringly, head low and tail between his legs. Oh for…

“Get up here,” Mycroft said. “I don’t care if you get hair on everything. You’re as welcome on my furniture in this form as in your other one. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”

Greg returned to the sofa and lied down, head on Mycroft’s lap, making that howling sound again. When was the last time that his head had been in Mycroft’s lap? Seven months into their relationship, perhaps, when Greg had stretched himself along the sofa as they watched a film, claiming that Mycroft made a good pillow. Mycroft had stroked his hair much as he was doing now, and mused that perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to do this for the rest of his life. The experience was distinctly different now, and not only because Greg was shaped like a wolf and not a man. Or because his hair was of a different texture and he couldn’t speak in words. Four years had gone by since the last time that they cuddled or kissed, since Mycroft had held him and made his body sing. Mycroft had endured unexpected heartbreak twice over since then, when Greg had found Susan and when he left her. He had shared Greg’s former joy with wistful regret and mourned his pain with treacherous hope. 

That hope flowered now. Was this the start of a redressing of grievances, of Greg returning to him more fully than either of them had dared to try since? Could he at least have Greg’s physical affection in this form even if he couldn’t in the other? It fell far short of what Mycroft wanted, but a peace he hadn’t experienced in far too long soothed his mind as he pet Greg. Greg’s eyes were closed, tail wagging lazily, muscles relaxed in gentle, trusting repose. 

“I really am sorry for scaring you earlier.” Mycroft almost dropped a kiss on Greg’s head like he had done so long ago. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Greg looked up at him, mouth open as if in a grin and wagged his tail. He leaned his head to the side and gave Mycroft’s left hand a small lick. Mycroft raised a brow. Did that count as a kiss in werewolf body language? Well, Mycroft wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He renewed his petting. 

They lingered on the sofa for a long while. When Greg left to transform back, Mycroft sat back and glanced at his work messages on his mobile without seeing any of them. It was 5:25. John’s train would be leaving soon. After Sherlock dropped him off, he would be heading home to mope with his violin. That would be a good time to visit and apologize. Maybe even share the wonder that had been the last hour. Who else did he know who could relate, after all? 

He dropped the phone when Greg returned, back in his clothes. 

“That went well, right?” Greg asked, smiling, much more relaxed than he had been before. “You seemed to enjoy it.”

Mycroft smiled back.

“I did. Enormously. You seemed to as well.”

Mycroft stood up and walked to him, noticing the wolf hairs that Greg hadn’t bothered to be so thorough about cleaning this time. 

“Yeah,” Greg said, his grin widening. “I didn’t think I’d ever do that with you. This day has been amazing. My mind hasn’t caught up with it. I feel like it’s spinning. In a good way.”

“I know the feeling.”

“You know, you never asked me why I told Sherlock.”

“It’s obvious. You and John smelled each other, probably reacted in surprise, and Sherlock noticed.”

“Well, yeah.”

Greg looked away shyly.

“You mean about us,” Mycroft said, realizing. 

How had that escaped his mind? It had seemed so important an hour ago.

“How did that happen exactly?”

Greg looked away again and rubbed his nape with an embarrassed air. 

“Well, I uh… I kept asking how you had reacted to John being a selkie and Sherlock caught on that I was nervous about you finding out about me. You keep apologizing to me, but I’m really sorry, too. I should have trusted you more.”

“There’s no need.”

If Greg were still in wolf form, Mycroft would stroke his head to reassure him, but that action was proscribed under these circumstances. Greg’s grateful expression would have to be enough. 

“So,” Greg continued, lowering his eyes again, hesitant. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. Why was Greg so nervous about this?

“Go on,” Mycroft said. “I can’t see how I would be cross no matter what happened.”

“I’m not afraid of that. It’s just a bit awkward. When Sherlock asked why I was nervous about you knowing, I kinda…” Greg’s hands shifted at his sides. “Sometimes reactions just happen, you know, when thoughts just come into your head. You know how that is. And the body reacts. Humans can’t tell. I hate to burst your bubble, but I am just as observant as you are. My senses are a lot more acute than yours. Selkies’, too. So I was thinking of you and I thought of… years ago and… I wasn’t keeping track of what my body was doing, but it reacted. The way that bodies react when they’re thinking of…”

Greg’s hand waved at his side, indicating things that he didn’t want to give words to. Oh. 

“You thought about having sex with me,” Mycroft said, embarrassment and shocking vulnerability cringing in his stomach.

Greg stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, shoulders hunched.

“Yeah. It was just a thought. You know how our minds jump from one thing to another.”

“I’m aware.”

Mycroft glanced to the side, fearing that he might betray himself if he met Greg’s eyes. 

“It didn’t mean… anything. Shit, that sounds like a lie.”

“It’s alright. No explanation necessary.”

Mycroft forced a smile. God, why had he done that? That was the most telltale sign that this was bothering him, along with his sudden inability to look Greg in the eye, not that it would be easy to do with Greg looking down at the floor with utter misery on his face. 

“I’m sorry,” Greg said.

“Please, you don’t have to keep apologizing. It’s fine.”

“I know you’re still attracted to me.”

Mycroft froze. His eyes widened, breath trapped in his throat. Now Greg looked at him, pitying, apologetic, and filled with shame.

“I can hear your heart beating faster,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Just like I could hear it when I cried on you. And every time we meet. In that first moment, your heart rate always goes up. You sound, you smell, you look, exactly like you did back then. You keep your distance. Don’t touch me as much. Respect that I don’t have that place in your life anymore. But I’ve always known that you wish I did. Maybe it’s my fault for asking to remain friends. It was selfish to not let you move on. I hoped after things got serious with Susan that your feelings toward me would change, but they haven’t, have they?”

Mycroft felt the cliff tremble under feet, his toes dipping past the edge into the abyss. He swallowed, shaking his head.

“No. I tried but, despite my best efforts, they’ve grown more intense.”

Greg nodded, glancing away.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You’re not selfish. I wanted to remain in your life. I don’t regret the friendship we have, not for a moment. Please don’t think that I begrudge you the life you chose. I very much hoped that your marriage would be a happy one. I would never have wished for things to be as they are now.”

“I know. I don’t doubt you, Mycroft. I…” Greg sighed, crossing his arms and rubbing his face. “I feel like I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’ve been ignoring it for so long and you’ve been ignoring it, but in all this ignoring, I think… Fuck, I don’t know what I’m saying. Look.” 

Greg met his eyes, wide and scared. Mycroft pinched his lips, a flinch jerking at the corner of his mouth, terrified of what he was revealing with his gaze. But it would be disrespectful to look away now. 

“I still love Susan,” Greg said, the words a knife to Mycroft’s gut.

“I would be concerned if you didn’t. It has only been four months, after all.”

“And it’s going to be a lot more before I can even consider moving on. I shouldn’t be telling you this. I fucked up enough when I broke up with you. I appreciate you saying I’m not selfish, but I’m being so selfish right now. The reason why I brought this up now is because when I thought about sleeping with you, I…” Greg sucked in a breath. “I liked it.”

All the air had been sucked out of Mycroft’s lungs. 

“And not just random enjoyment of a random thought,” Greg continued. “I liked thinking about touching you like that. About holding you. Kissing you. Waking up in that luxurious bed of yours and making you breakfast. Seeing the way your nose wrinkles right as you wake up and open your eyes. But then it all got mixed up with Susan and seeing her wake up and making her breakfast and going on our weekend trips and running in the woods.”

“Susan is also a werewolf.”

Greg startled as Mycroft spoke. 

“Yes. I guess I missed telling you that part, huh?”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the turmoil of emotions burning inside Mycroft off his face.

“A fellow werewolf would be more compatible for you,” he said, hanging on to composure by a thread.

“Bullshit. You being human had nothing to do with anything.”

“I still don’t want children. I am no more a suitable candidate for you now than I was four years ago. Even when you are recovered from Susan’s betrayal, you would be better off seeking a romantic companion elsewhere. Romance, of course, is something else that I cannot provide.”

“But I don’t want to look elsewhere. I’m tired of the whole dating game. I cannot tell you how much I don’t want to go back to it. And how long would it take me to find someone? How long after that until me and this hypothetical person have kids? How old would I be by then? I certainly wouldn’t be any less busy than I am now. I don’t want to be one of those dads who only sees his kids on weekends. Is it even worth thinking about now?”

“You shouldn’t give up on something you want so much this easily.”

“I’m not. I’ve thought about this, long and hard. Let’s face it. Having kids might not be in the cards for me. Not everyone who wants them gets to have them. Maybe I’m one of those.”

There was logic to what Greg was saying. Practicality dictated that one should not be too old when having children to have the stamina and time to raise them properly. Greg was 41 by now, which didn’t give him much time for maximum potential. 

“Yu could adopt. An older child perhaps, instead of a baby. That would make it more viable.”

Greg considered this. 

“Maybe. But what if the person I’m with doesn’t want to? How viable is it really? Look, I appreciate you trying to find solutions, but I don’t want false hope. Or to give you any.” Greg squeezed his eyes shut in distress. “Shit, I’m talking about what I want with you without taking your feedings into account. I’m s—”

“Apologize one more time Greg Lestrade, and I will have to ask you to leave.”

Greg stopped himself, his mouth jerking in a lopsided, desperate smile bordering on hysteria. He raised his hands in mock surrender.

“No more apologies,” he said, meting Mycroft’s eyes. “What do you want, then? I should have asked that earlier instead of just assuming things.”

How best to answer this question in a way that wouldn’t pressure Greg?

“I want your happiness.”

Greg narrowed his eyes.

“That’s not the kind of answer I’m looking for and you know it. Come on. It’s your turn to be selfish. Tell me what you want. Your ideal, future scenario. What would it look like?”

“I don’t want to influence you unfairly.”

“Mycroft, I’m asking you to tell me. It’s okay. Don’t worry about upsetting me or pressuring me or anything. I want to know what you want. Please.”

Greg’s eyes implored as keenly as his words. Mycroft held his breath. He shouldn’t. Greg wouldn’t thank him for being selfish no matter what he said, but he wouldn’t abide less than total honesty from him, either. A drawback of their close association was that Mycroft found it increasingly difficult to lie to him. Greg knew his tells. He caught him at it each of the few times that Mycroft attempted it.

“Alright,” Mycroft said, tension gripping him. “Ideally, I would like to be with you like we were before. Only not in a casual relationship. A committed one where I don’t have to be concerned about you leaving me for another. I’m fully aware that I encouraged you to look for companionship elsewhere, so I don’t blame you for anything. I didn’t think I was the most suitable person for you then, and that belief still holds. I would be willing to compromise with you over some of the romantic things, like referring to our outings as dates. I would also not mind you referring to me as your boyfriend if you wished. I don’t yearn for marriage, but the thought of sharing a wedding band with you is a pleasant one. So, that’s my answer.” Mycroft spread his hands helplessly at his sides. “Now I implore you to ignore it if it interferes in any way with your own wishes.”

Greg had watched him steadily throughout Mycroft’s little speech, distress and nostalgia mixing in his eyes. He had held himself very still, focusing so keenly on Mycroft that continuing to meet his gaze hurt, yet Mycroft could do no less. He wouldn’t disrespect Greg by being cowardly enough to look away, not now, not when he was so desperate to demand this of him. It was the least that he could give. Now that the truth couldn’t be recalled, Greg shifted on his feet, sucking in a breath.

“I was kinda hoping you’d say something like that,” he said, voice more than a little broken. “But also kinda not. I don’t… Christ. I don’t know what to say now. I wanted that, back then. Or close enough. I can compromise too on the romantic stuff. But you know that. We did that. If you had wanted kids, it would have been a no brainer. That really was the only thing.”

It did Mycroft no good to hear that. His being out of tune with society at large so often did him ill, yet it had rarely cut as sharply as this.

“My lack of desire in that area still remains,” Mycroft said. “Your options aren’t spent.”

“But my chances of being a father aren’t great. We covered that. Not unless I started now, alone, but I can’t. Not with my job. I just can’t. So why keep beating that dead horse, huh? Let’s just get rid of it. I officially declare that no longer an obstacle between us. If we decided to renew things, that is. Which I can’t… Fuck, I can’t do right now.”

“Of course not.”

“But I want to.”

If Mycroft’s body tensed any further, he would pull a muscle.

“I have been indulging your hypotheticals so far, but please don’t give me hope if you don’t fully intend to follow through.”

“I’m not.” Greg stepped closer to him, begging with his gaze. “I swear, I’m not. I mean it. Today, with you, cuddling on the sofa, you accepting who I am, all of me… I haven’t felt so at peace since… Shit, I can’t remember since when. You make me feel good. Through this whole thing with Susan, everyone else has been smothering me with platitudes. They mean well, but it’s exhausting. You don’t do that. You just ask me what I need and then give it to me. You have no idea how much you help me. You’ve always helped me. You never pushed me away. I love you for that. I… I love you.”

Every cell in Mycroft’s body froze. He played back Greg’s words, analyzed the individual sounds, concluding that he did not mishear them. His mouth went dry, his tongue rubbing painfully against his teeth as he opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

“I mean it,” Greg said it, wretched. “I don’t know if as a friend or something else. I loved you back then, too. I just didn’t realize it until later. But then it faded when I fell in love with Susan. But then she cheated on me. Since then, since I realized that I have to let her go, my feelings for you have resurfaced. No, that’s not the right word. They’ve changed. They’ve always been changing. Evolving. But I still love her, too. So I don’t know what to do now.”

Mycroft turned to the side, walked over to the sofa, and sat down. His legs shook, unable to hold him up anymore. He gripped his knees, barely breathing, gazing down at his rug without seeing more than a haze of colors. This couldn’t be true. How could he not have noticed? Yet Greg’s demeanor connoted absolute sincerity. 

“Mycroft?”

Greg’s legs entered Mycroft’s field of vision. His shoes, oxfords, were scuffed from wear and tear. A long scratch along the tip of his right shoe indicated where it had rubbed against barbed wire. He cleaned them, but not well. At least three different sorts of dirt were nestled between the uppers and the soles, and mud splattered the leather, soft and wrinkled. He’d had them for over a year. Had changed the laces once, two, no three months ago. His trousers were also splashed, small traces of mud clinging to the hems. 

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft startled, snapping out of his observational haze, a coping mechanism he used to calm down. Greg sat beside him. The weight of his body mere inches away made Mycroft gasp. What was happening to him? He shut his eyes, sucking in a breath. It did nothing to fortify him. 

“I apologize,” he said, voice the audible equivalent of sandpaper. 

“So you’re allowed to apologize but I’m not? That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think?”

Greg was smiling, forcing cheer when he didn’t feel it. Mycroft didn’t need to look at him to confirm it. This tone of voce was always accompanied by that smile, designed to put people at ease. To comfort him after what he’d just done. 

“I shouldn’t have told you all that now,” Greg said, rubbing his fingers. Mycroft could see them jerking on Greg’s lap from the corner of his eye. “It wasn’t right.”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you did.”

Mycroft shifted his head, finally collecting enough courage to look at Greg, who awaited his reaction with silent dread. 

“Are you really or are you just saying that?” Greg asked, his shamed grimace indicating that he believed it to be the latter. 

Mycroft straightened up and reached for him. For the first time in four years, he allowed himself to cup Greg’s nape and stroke his tender skin with yearning fingertips. Greg gasped but didn’t object or move away. Mycroft leaned forward, but stopped a few inches away, silently asking for permission. Greg nodded, a tiny thing, but it was enough. Mycroft kissed him. It was a simple pressing of lips at first. Greg’s breath gusted against his own, warming his upper lip. Then Greg began to move, opening his mouth, grabbing his waist, wrapping fierce hands around his back as Mycroft met his fervor with every ounce of passion and desire that he had been hoarding for four, endless years of denial and suffocation, inhaling Greg’s scent, hungering for his touch, savoring every second of sensation that this wonderful man had chosen to bestow upon him. 

Greg was the first to pull away. Mycroft let him go, releasing him as Greg dropped his hands and leaned back. They both gasped, breaths short, shocked and dazed. Greg swallowed, eyes wide and uncertain.

“Was that alright?” Mycroft asked, suddenly terrified that he had pushed too much too soon.

Greg nodded jerkily.

“Yeah. More than alright. Really. But I can’t do more than that right now.”

“I understand. You need time.”

“Yes.” Greg looked sadly at him. “I need to get Susan out of my head first. I don’t want her in there when I’m with you. If I’m with you. I don’t… I shouldn’t promise you anything. I want to. I really do, but—”

“Please don’t feel any obligation towards me. Don’t think about my feelings, just about your own.”

Of course I’m going to think about your feelings. I’m not an asshole. Or I hope I’m not.”

A smile glimmered on Mycroft’s lips.

“You’re not, I assure you. Very well. Consider me if you must, but do not prioritize me over yourself. And take all the time that you need.”

Greg nodded. He gripped his knees, fingers grasping at the cloth of his trousers as if wishing that he were holding something else. Or someone. 

“Okay. I think I should go now. Sorry for being so abrupt. And sorry for saying sorry. You know what. I’m English. If I stop saying sorry, that means I’m dead, so just deal with it.”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh despite himself.

“Fair enough.”

Fondness warmed his voice. Greg heard it and smiled back. Mycroft focused on him, recording this moment in his mind palace for posterity. If Greg decided not to renew their former connection, this would be the last moment that he would be able to enjoy the sight of a cheeky, open Greg with his lips bright red from Mycroft’s kisses. Greg stood up, hands flexing helplessly at his side.

“I’ll talk to you soon, okay?” he said, waiting for Mycroft to nod and reply, “Okay” before turning away and leaving the room.


	18. Chapter 18

John left on the 7:25 train. After dinner with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock accompanied him to the station to see him off, indulging in a thorough face nuzzle that raised some brows around them, but neither of them gave a damn. He returned to an empty flat that was suddenly much too silent without John’s presence. He dropped onto the sofa and curled into a ball, staring off into space. He pulled out his phone and opened the text app. But he couldn’t text John already. What if he came off as too clingy? Besides, John had mentioned wanting to take a nap on the train. Sherlock didn’t want to wake him up. 

His mobile rang, but instead of the soothing melody that Sherlock had composed for John, the dissonant chords of “God Save the Queen” rang out. Sherlock groaned. Must he really be obligated to speak to Mycroft twice in one day?

“Are you calling to apologize again?” Sherlock answered in lieu of “hello”.

He could visualize Mycroft’s long-suffering annoyance in the short pause that followed.

“I do wish to do so, yes. May I visit you tomorrow, or will you kick me out?”

Mycroft sounded exhausted. Sherlock jerked up on the sofa, frowning and hugging his right leg to his chest.

“What happened with Greg?” he asked, worried despite himself. There had been no reason for anything bad to happen. But then, why did Mycroft sound like he’d been run over by a lorry?

“That’s a long story,” Mycroft said. “I’m afraid I’m too tired at the moment to go into it.”

“Did you two have a row? Why would you have a row? You shouldn’t have been too shocked by Greg being a werewolf, not after smothering John with questions for a month. He is so often covered in dog hairs. Always the same dog, too. I should have figured it out earlier that them being from his cousin’s dog was a lie.”

“Sherlock.”

Shit, he was babbling.

“What happened?”

“I was surprised by the revelation, but no, we did not have a row. We did have a long discussion, but about something completely different. Would it be possible for you to contain your curiosity until tomorrow? I don’t have the energy to talk about it right now.”

Sherlock’s worry intensified. Why was Mycroft being so weird? He sounded vulnerable. Ragged. Most of the times when he allowed himself to lower his filters like this, he was upset with Sherlock.

“Is this about how you feel about Greg?”

“Sherlock please.”

Sherlock gasped at the plea in his brother’s voice.

“Can I visit you tomorrow or not?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock wanted to push the issue, but he bit his tongue. Literally.

“If you must,” he said, but couldn’t muster bitterness in his tone.

“Thank you. We’ll talk about this then, I promise.”

Mycroft hung up. Sherlock kept the mobile pressed to his ear, then stared at the screen, frowning at his brother’s name before it disappeared. What the hell had happened? He opened the text app and clicked on Greg’s thread.

 _What did you do to my brother?_

His finger hovered over Send. He hit Backspace instead. He typed again.

_What happened between you and Mycroft?_

No, that still wasn’t right.

_How did it go with Mycroft?_

Better. Sherlock sent that one. He tapped his knee, narrowing his eyes as the little notification _Seen_ appeared at the bottom of the thread. The dots popped up. Then vanished. Grunting, Sherlock stood up and paced around the room. The dots appeared again. And disappeared again. Sherlock switched apps, about to call Greg when the man finally replied. 

_It went great. He was a bit freaked out, but he calmed down fast enough. He’s not crazy about me leaving wolf hair on the sofa, but it was okay._

Wolf hair? So Greg had transformed for him. Did Mycroft not like that? Why wouldn’t he? But there had to be some relation between one thing and another. From the misery in Mycroft’s voice, if Greg hadn’t said that he and Mycroft hadn’t slept together in years, Sherlock would have thought that Greg had just broken up with Mycroft. Greg’s message was disturbingly contrary, too. First he used an annoyingly vague “great”, but ended by saying that it had only been “okay”. Nor did he give any detail other than the wolf hair. A quick quip, some light humor. After how nervous he’d been today and the tête à tête they’d had, Sherlock had expected a bit more. He shouldn’t even had had to ask. Usually, Greg would just have told him. Why would Greg clam up now? Just what exactly was going on between him and Mycroft?

`````````````````

_When are you coming over?_

Sherlock lost count of how many times he sent Mycroft that message, only to receive an unsatisfying, _Later. I’m working._ Leave it to Mycroft to hide behind work right when Sherlock actually wanted him present to interrogate him, for once. Greg hadn’t contacted Sherlock again, which was most disturbing. John thought that it was none of his business what Mycroft and Greg got up to as long as it didn’t affect him, but it was affecting him, wasn’t it? Mycroft was coming over at some point today if some crisis didn’t suddenly erupt to excuse him from it to talk about this, but Sherlock wasn’t allowed to know anything about it until he did. Texting John only distracted him for so long, especially when John couldn’t respond for ages because he was working, too. Sherlock, for his part, had tried to begin a new experiment with the fingers he had left over, but he couldn’t concentrate. A morose cloud hung over his head, depressing his limbs and sending his executive dysfunction shooting through the roof. He had been plastered on the sofa with the telly remote in his hand since noon. Before that, it had been a book on venoms, but after the forth time reading the same paragraph and not taking in a single word, he tossed it on the desk and grabbed the remote. Mrs. Hudson came up to check on him periodically, tutting and spouting platitudes. She had even ruffled his hair, which he had pretended to hate, dodging her hand, but had secretly enjoyed. She had all but shoved food down his mouth, too, but his grumblings were overruled both by her and his own treacherous stomach. 

Something silly and loud was on the telly, one of the movies that John kept trying to get him into. Sherlock watched the antics of the improbably armored Iron Man, followed by another movie with even more ridiculously attired superheroes. They proved to be more entertaining than he anticipated. Certainly better than trash telly. Tony Stark’s depressed air and single minded focus to escape the demons in his own mind with a special project that no one else understood the importance of was certainly relatable. That was unexpected. 

It carried him through the day, even if it didn’t make him any less cranky and irritable at not being able to comment about the films to John in person. Text wasn’t remotely good enough. Had the flat always felt so empty? Perhaps. Just a little. But it was so much worse now. John needed to fill it with his cheerful, calm, and ebullient presence. He had only been here two days, not even a full forty-eight hours, yet these walls felt so lacking without him to fill them. 

A text from Mycroft came in.

_I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Am I right in thinking that you haven’t left your flat today?_

Sherlock scowled at the message. Mycroft couldn’t even see or hear him. How could he always deduce him so easily?

_Yes, I’m here. Get here faster._

_I’m doing the best I can. I can’t teleport, you know._

_How do you know a sci-fi word like that?_

_Blame Greg._

Greg. The reason why Mycroft was being so infuriatingly odd. Shocking that Mycroft mentioned him at all. 

Those thirty minutes dragged by. Sherlock kept looking at the time on his phone, only barely distracted now by the big explosions on the screen as the superheroes fought off an alien invasion. Why was it always aliens? Weren’t Earthbound adversaries interesting enough?

Mycroft let himself in with his key, not even pretending that he didn’t have one. Sherlock jerked upright when he heard his footsteps on the stairs, tugging the blanket he’d wrapped himself in closer around his shoulders. Mycroft opened the door. He was pristinely dressed, as always, umbrella gripped in his right hand. There were no signs of distress on his clothes or his hair. There never were. But his half-hearted smile didn’t reach his eyes, which had prominent bags under them. Nothing unusual in that. Mycroft’s sleep schedule was even worse than Sherlock’s own, but, combined with his slightly sagging posture and sluggish pace as he entered the room, it rang like an alarm bell. And he stank of cigarette smoke. Mycroft only indulged when he was upset. On top of this, he had been gaining weight for the last few months. Had it been four? Sherlock should have been paying more attention, but Mycroft’s weight oscillated so often that it didn’t bear noticing much. Yet he did have a tendency to eat his feelings even more when something was bothering him. He was already wearing a size up from his usual suits. Mycroft kept a wardrobe of larger suits tucked away from his normal wardrobe for the times when his self-discipline vanished. Sherlock hadn’t seen this particular grey pin-stripe in over a year. He had probably started overeating as soon as Greg left his wife, seeking to dampen his emotions with pies and custard.

“You miss John, I see,” Mycroft said, taking in Sherlock’s blanket and messy hair.

Sherlock instinctively clutched it tighter, but shook off Mycroft’s attempt to turn this on him. He wasn’t the one being investigated here.

“I’m not the one who looks like a dog’s chew toy. What the hell is going on with you?”

Mycroft’s lips twisted in a wry expression as he reoriented one of the armchairs to face the sofa, and sat down with less than his usual grace. He crossed his legs at the knee, arms on the armrests, and gazed emptily at the floor beside the umbrella, whose grip he hadn’t loosened, before looking up at Sherlock. 

“Before I assuage your curiosity,” Mycroft said, “please allow me to apologize again for keeping my relationship with Greg a secret. I didn’t think of how it was unfair to you. I should have.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. His instinct was to dismiss Mycroft’s apology out of hand as disingenuous or self-serving, but he was being so earnest and weird. Sherlock shifted in his seat, not knowing what to do with himself. 

“Yes, you should have,” he said, stiff, not wanting to give an inch even as his worry grew. “Apology accepted, if that’s what it will take to get you to move onto what happened with Greg already.” 

Mycroft raised a surprised brow.

“Really? You were very upset about this yesterday, yet now you don’t care?”

“I do care, but I can yell at you later. Quit stalling. What happened?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but he closed it with a frown and glanced at the floor.

“Alright. As you now know, Greg and I used to be in a physical relationship. You’ve doubtlessly figured out that he’s the person who I had my bit of an emotional doubt over four years ago.”

“Obviously. I’m not an idiot. Did you figure it out?”

Mycroft pursed his lips in thought.

“I think if I were romantically inclined towards him, I wouldn’t be so unenthused by some of the romantically coded things Greg likes to do. Or perhaps that doesn’t matter. In any case, I don’t think that’s what’s happening here, but what I do feel toward him is new. Well, not new anymore. But specific to him nonetheless. And intense. It’s hard to describe. No term seems to fit properly.”

“Then stop trying to define it. John and I don’t define our relationship and we’re doing fine. You want to get back together with him, yes? Does he not? He seemed interested in you when he was here.”

A wry smile jerked on Mycroft’s mouth. He was dancing his umbrella to and fro with the tip pressed on the floor, bouncing the handle on his fingers.

“Oh, lack of interest isn’t the problem. He made that very clear yesterday.”

Oh.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Mycroft fixed him with his “are you really this thick?” stare. Sherlock glared at him.

“He discovered his wife’s infidelity only four months ago.”

“He’s getting a divorce. What’s the problem?”

Mycroft sighed, as if Sherlock were being so stupid. Sherlock wrapped his hands on the sheet, gripping it in tight fists.

“Time, little brother. People require time after ending a long-term relationship. Would you have jumped into bed with John only four months after Victor left?”

Sherlock thought about it. 

“I think so, yes. If John was offering me comfort, why would I have rejected it? Especially with my lack of prospects.”

“And Victor wouldn’t have clouded your thoughts?”

Damn it.

“Fine. I see your point.”

“Precisely. For the sake of clarity, let me explain my relationship with Greg from the beginning.”

“You wouldn’t need to if you had told me years ago, like you should have.”

Mycroft tilted his head at him in annoyance.

“I thought you’d accepted my apology.”

Sherlock raised his chin.

“I reserve the right to change my mind.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him, but refrained from further comment.

“During one of my early conversations with Greg about you, we began to speak about other things. He invited me for ice cream.”

“He invited you?”

Irritation flashed in Mycroft’s eyes.

“Yes. Is that truly so difficult to fathom?”

“I knew that Greg has weird tastes, so not really, no.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Anyway,” he continued, “against my better judgement, I agreed to go on this outing. I did ask him however, to keep it secret from you. I didn’t expect our encounter to be repeated, so I didn’t see the point in upsetting you and making you suspicious of Greg when his cooperation with you was being so beneficial to your recovery.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. He would have been suspicious of Greg, and working with Scotland Yard had made his existence less dreary and unbearable.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered.

Mycroft did him the courtesy of not disagreeing.

“I enjoyed our outing. Greg referred to it as a date and I didn’t mind the appellation. He is a remarkably easy person to be with, more observant than most. I attribute this to basic skills necessary for detective work, but he had a hidden card up his sleeve, after all. He pointed out to me that his powers of observation are much more acute than my own in certain areas.”

“And you accepted this demotion in your glorious status? I’m shocked.”

“He’s more observant by smell than you, too. And I’m still more observant than you.”

Sherlock grit his teeth, looking away.

“What happened afterwards?” he asked. “Were you riveted by his conversation? Charmed by his smile?” Sherlock’s cheeks burned. “Other things?”

“Yes. It was surprisingly easy to converse with him. I won’t discomfort you with details about our other activities. Suffice it to say that I enjoyed his company very much. What I had hoped to keep short became a much longer connection. We went on more dates and kept in steady communication. He’s a generous, loving man. I cannot satisfy all his emotional desires. My dislike of children is another barrier between us. He wanted a committed relationship from me. I wasn’t sure that it would be a good idea. The children were a deal breaker, it turned out. I always made it clear that he was free to pursue amorous companionship elsewhere and sever our relationship if he found someone more compatible.”

“He said you pushed him away. He looked resentful about it.”

Mycroft’s jaw clenched. He gripped his umbrella.

“I suppose I did. I didn’t want to interfere in his future happiness. People who want children tend to be rather miserable if they can’t have them.”

“It’s not like you to be so selfless.”

Mycroft turned to him and smiled gently. The sadness in that smile made Sherlock squirm.

“Isn’t it?” Mycroft said, soft and wistful.

Sherlock looked down and rubbed his sheet between his fingers, awkwardness crawling under his skin. No, he would not let Mycroft guilt him and make this about him not being grateful enough or some such bollocks. No way. 

“Perhaps I was self-sabotaging, as well,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock released a relieved breath at the change of subject.

“It does run in the family,” he said, leaning into that change.

“Quite. In any case, there was a period of two months when we hardly had the chance to see each other. He called me one day telling me that he had met Susan, who was also romantically inclined and wanted children, so he wanted to try to date her. I said of course. I wouldn’t stand in his way. He wanted to remain friends. We didn't speak much after that, though, not for a while. It took some time for our reconstituted friendship to knit together. But we became close again. I missed our former connection, but I wished him all the happiness in the world.

“When Susan cheated on him, I was furious. As much as I may have fantasized about being with him like before in my low moments, I never wanted his marriage to falter. I have mixed feelings, as people say, about it now. There’s no chance of Greg having children with me, and yet…”

“You want to try again.”

“He has offered. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Of course it is. You’ve been pining over him for four years and you’re backing down now? Why? At his age, what are the chances that he’ll be able to find someone else and have kids with them, and still have the energy to run around after them? Children, particularly small ones, require a lot of it, from what I understand. His chances of being a father are rather thin, at this rate, unless he just gets anyone pregnant.”

Mycroft huffed in quiet amusement. 

“He said pretty much the same. In any case, he’s not ready to pursue any sort of romantic connection with anyone, even me. He needs time. And during that time, he might reconsider.”

“And that’s what you want, is it? You know it’s not.”

Mycroft seemed to be incapable of looking above the floor today.

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock said. “You’re not the smart one. You’re being a fucking idiot.”

Mycroft looked up sharply. 

“I’m considering what would make Greg happiest.”

“Stop considering so much and just listen to him. John would love to do all sorts of romantic nonsense with me, as well as other things, but I’m not pushing him away. He says he’s happy. He looks happy. I believe him. Sure, I’m a little worried about the sex thing, but like I said. He’s happy. I’m not pushing him away because I think he should find someone more compatible. We’re plenty compatible in other ways. And he doesn’t want to be with anyone else. He wants to be with me. Greg clearly wants to be with you, even if he needs to get his soon to be ex-wife out of his head first. It’s been four years and he still wants to be with you? That’s devotion right there. But you always have to control everything. You know what’s best for everyone else. What they want. What they need. You don’t. Stop being a self-centered arsehole and start listening for a change. And that’s coming from another self-centered arsehole, so you know you’re being a spectacularly pigheaded wanker.”

God, it felt good to get all that out. He was thirsty now. His mouth was dry from all that ranting. Completely well-deserved. Mycroft merited every single word of it. He seemed to know it, too, for he was gaping at Sherlock with a ridiculous look of shock on his face, speechless. 

“I’m getting some water,” Sherlock said, standing up. “You want some for that burn? It must be smarting terribly.”

Mycroft didn’t respond. Sherlock went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass from the tap, gulping half of it down. Ah, that felt good. He took what was left of the water into the sitting room in case that he needed to hydrate after further Mycroft wrangling. Mycroft had closed his mouth, but he looked even tenser than before. He held his umbrella against his leg, shoulders hunched, misery on his face. Was that shame peeking at his eyes? It looked like it. Just a bit. 

“No retort?” Sherlock asked, sitting down again. “You’re usually so quick with those.”

Mycroft breathed in slowly. He still needed time to recover. Sherlock’s words must have cut in deep. The truth always did. 

“You’re forgiven, by the way,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft leaned back with quiet misery.

“You already accepted my apology.”

“Sure, but I hadn’t forgiven you yet. I just wanted you to get on with it.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, but didn’t object.

“So, my quiet acceptance of your admonishment has earned me a reprieve, then?”

“For now. Are you going to stop being such a wanker about things?”

Mycroft shifted in his chair, the barest motion against the backrest, but it counted. 

“There might be some truth to what you said.”

“Really? How very generous of you.”

Mycroft sighed.

“Fine. You might be right.”

Sherlock raised a skeptical brow.

“You are right,” Mycroft corrected himself. “I haven’t granted Greg the freedom to choose what he wants. I’ll endeavor to do better in the future. For both of you.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. I don’t need to be mollycoddled, Mycroft.”

“So you don’t need me at all, then?”

Sherlock paused. Damn it.

“I don’t need you watching over my every move. I’m not going to shoot myself up with heroin because you looked away from me for one second.”

Mycroft sighed.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll back off.”

Sherlock frowned. This had to be a trick.

“You’re serious?”

“I’m tired of you hating me. And you’re much happier now. You have John. You have a friend with Greg. A true friend now that you have stopped keeping him at arm’s length. I do want to trust you, Sherlock. So I will.”

Sherlock scrutinized Mycroft’s face, looking for tells. But there weren’t any. No signs of deception that he could perceive. This couldn’t be right. Mycroft wouldn’t just roll over so easily.

“You really are just going to let me live my life?”

“Yes.”

“No stalking me on CCTV?”

“No.”

“No paying people to spy on me?”

“No.”

“No keeping tabs on my phone?”

“I don’t do that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, but let it go.

“I don’t hate you, for the record,” he said. “I just find you immensely irritating.”

“I can sympathize.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft’s self-satisfied smirk. 

“And you’re a royal pain in my arse.”

“Likewise.”

“I really don’t see why Greg is willing to put with you.”

“My intelligence. My impeccable taste. My good sense of style. Much better than that of some in this room.”

“Antiquated, you mean. No, it must be your money. I can’t think of any other positive quality, really.”

Mycroft laughed, an open, loud laugh. Sherlock startled. Mycroft never laughed like that. It wasn’t in his emotional repertoire. Yet here he was, his smirk replaced by a bright smile, the stress lifting from his face. Sherlock frowned at him for a second before a smile jerked on his own lips. Wait, why was he smiling? He and Mycroft didn’t smile together, not for ages, especially not when Sherlock insulted hm. Well, teased him, really. He hadn’t been aiming to hurt, not even to irritate now that he thought of it. This should feel strange. It did feel strange. Yet…

He was lonely because John was gone. That was all. He didn’t miss Mycroft. How could he when the man was constantly underfoot?

“I’m sure Greg is very appreciative of that as well,” Mycroft said. “But levity aside, I am glad that you’re not so ill disposed towards me.”

If Sherlock kept rubbing his sheet this much, he was going to wear a hole into it. 

“Of course not. What do you take me for? You may be the definition of annoying, but I’m stuck with you. I do…”

No, no. He was not saying that.

“I haven’t deleted anything you’ve done,” he continued, forcing his tongue to move as he looked firmly out the window. “Including the not bad things.”

“You’re welcome. And thank you in turn for being worried about me.”

“I wasn’t…” Sherlock cut himself off, grasping at the floorboards with his toes. Why did he always have to be so damn transparent? “You’re welcome.”


	19. Chapter 19

Visiting Sherlock had been a rude awakening and a blessing. He had been expecting his brother’s implacable curiosity, resentment, and demands to know everything about Mycroft’s relationship with Greg. As well as being yelled at for keeping it secret for so long. But not to be so convincingly upbraided for his liking to retain as much control as he possibly could. He had never thought that he had been controlling Sherlock by watching over him. Sherlock had always resisted any attempt to do so from anybody. Much less had Mycroft thought that he was controlling Greg’s actions by emphasizing that he didn’t consider himself to be the best fit for him. If Mycroft had clung to him four years ago, wouldn’t Greg had grown to resent him and left, anyway? Were the circumstances truly so different now? Both Greg and Sherlock thought so. And how much of this was truly about Mycroft’s own dislike of losing control? To love someone was precisely to lose control. Mycroft, like Sherlock, had always found his levels of empathy and emotion to be different from those around him. People referred to him as the ice man because they found him cold and distant. While others were brought down by the latest tragedy in the news, he maintained a cool head and felt no urge whatsoever to coo in pity and tweet about how horrible it all was. Such distant rationality was essential in his job, yet even his own colleagues were secretly disturbed by how unfeeling they found him. 

How was Mycroft supposed to not despair around these people? If they possessed even half the observational ability that he did, they would be able to perceive that his lack of immediate feeling was his mind’s defensive mechanism against the paralyzing onslaught of emotion that would ensue should he allow himself to feel. Such intense emotion would bring them to their knees. 

No more proof was needed than his love for his little brother, who treated his desire to take care of him as an attack on his freedom and intelligence. When Sherlock had first grown addicted to the various cocktails of drugs that ravaged his body for years, Mycroft developed insomnia. His work performance, so important as a fresh face at the ministry, slipped and he needed a sleeping tablet prescription to be able to sleep at all. Sherlock invaded his every waking thought. 

What was he doing? Was he visiting his dealer? Did he remember to eat? To drink water? Would the next phone call Mycroft received be the police informing him that Sherlock had been found dead from an overdose? Mycroft pleaded with Sherlock to get clean. He bought him all the chemistry equipment he wanted. Used the connections he had accumulated to get him special access to labs. Donated to his uni to keep him registered despite his failing grades. Sherlock showed some gratitude back then, at least, when he wasn’t in a strop or being snippy about Mycroft “overstepping” and “acting like mummy”. An outside party wouldn’t have recognized it as gratitude at all. It was all in the little gestures. For example, Sherlock looking relieved to see Mycroft visit his student hall for a fleeting second before he put on his sulky mask and pretended that Mycroft was the most obnoxious person on Earth if he so much as suggested that Sherlock hadn’t been eating enough. As Sherlock grew thinner from the effects of the drugs, Mycroft’s own weight ballooned. Stress eating. One of his many vices, and the one he found the most difficult to conquer. 

Yet no amount of stress from making sure that the United Kingdom didn’t collapse gave him the urge to empty a whole bag of biscuits in one go. Only family had that effect. Sherlock and his flirting with death antics. Their parents and their desperation to cling to a heteronormative illusion of their children. And now Greg. Mycroft hadn’t thought of him in the same category, but it felt right to. When Greg came into his life, Mycroft’s closely guarded control began to slip. He didn’t even realize until it was too late. The realization terrified him. He had always been glad not to yearn for relationships like the rest of the world did. Sherlock needed them to function, but Mycroft did very well on his own. It wasn’t like he was lonely. He didn’t have time for such sentimentality. 

Or so he had thought, until Greg subjected him to that grievous phone call. Perhaps Sherlock was right and he had pushed Greg away. Greg himself thought so. It hadn’t been Mycroft’s intention to hurt him by doing so, yet it appeared that he had. Greg had become a liability, a whirlwind that tore his control to pieces. Sherlock already took up too much of his thought process. He didn’t need another person clogging his mind. Yet Greg’s sudden distance had torn his peace even more asunder. He’d thought that he’d steadied the ship, soothed the waters, learned to love him without being dominated by this love. But he had failed utterly, had he not?

Sherlock, who surrendered willingly to his emotions, welcoming them as they consumed him, would say that Mycroft was being ridiculous for thinking that he was being in any way being held prisoner by his affection for Greg. Sherlock, like Mycroft, recognized when emotions had to be put aside to get the job done. He didn’t waste time with empty platitudes. Being beaten by his love for specific people was an exception to this, a weakness, or so Mycroft had thought. 

Yet had Mycroft not been happy with Greg? Was his spirit not lighter after spending time with him, his evenings richer? Did he not look forward to the next day with more fervor rather than simply a matter of routine, of life moving forward as it always did? Temporary dips aside, if you analyzed the data as a whole, spending time with Greg increased his productivity more than it impaired it. It boosted his motivation and even his confidence, despite the fact that he had no deficiencies in that regard. Well, not any that affected his work performance. He wouldn’t let them. A rare good visit with Sherlock produced the same effect even as the much more common bad ones exhausted and tarnished his mood. This last one had been a welcome relief, despite the tongue lashing he received. Sherlock had been worried for him. Not only that, he had admitted it. Mycroft never thought he would see the day. He had never doubted that Sherlock loved him, very deep down, but at times he feared that it was more in the obligatory sense, not out of genuine affection. Despite Mycroft’s worry over Greg, his smile of relief had lasted him all the way home.

So, he should give up control then in this instance. Was that even a choice anymore? Of course not. He had taken it the numerous times when he reasoned that spending another night with Greg wouldn’t be as problematic as he feared. There was no question of severing relations with Greg now. Even if Greg weren’t Sherlock’s, and now John’s, friend, and even if it was possible for Mycroft to never see Greg again, how much would the oncoming years dull his affection? There was no guarantee that it would extinguish them completely. Despite himself and his conviction that romance was not the proper term for what he felt for Greg, Mycroft found himself a sad cliché shown in romcom after romcom, pining like a besotted child for the company of that one person that made him feel truly comfortable and not like he had to put on airs all the time. Sherlock had once been that person, but their childhood was long past. Besides, Greg not being his sibling brought incalculable advantages. And pleasures. 

It was all up to Greg. He might decide to keep their friendship as is, after all. Or, perish the thought, ask to be excused permanently. Mycroft clamped down on the urge to reach for a biscuit or a cigarette at the possibility. But, if Greg did decide to renew their more intimate connection, Mycroft wouldn’t hesitate to accept. Not for the world.


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft ordered Sherlock not to harass Greg about this, but he didn’t actually expect Sherlock to obey him, did he? Then again, Sherlock didn’t want to jeopardize his friendship with Greg. Although the years had shown that Sherlock could be an insufferable pain in the arse and Greg would still associate with him. But he might withhold future wolf cuddles. Sherlock had enjoyed those. A lot. But he couldn’t just sit on his hands and be patient without any more indication on whether or not Greg would transition from friend to brother-in-law. How could Mycroft and John even speak of patience as if it were oh so easy to achieve? Sherlock had to keep mum about Mycroft’s perspective on the affair to John, but John had heard some more from Greg himself, also sworn to secrecy. 

“He figures that Mycroft already told you,” John had told him on the phone the night after Mycroft had come to Baker Street. “But I still shouldn’t say anything.”

Sherlock had been surprised and jealous that Greg had spilled such intimate details after only knowing John for one day. Shapeshifters must share a special bond. Or Greg needed someone to confide in who knew Mycroft but wasn’t his ex’s brother. Not that this was the sort of thing that he would confide to Sherlock, anyway. When asked, John had implied that Sherlock was on the right track. He also said that Sherlock should keep his curiosity to himself and not coax or push Greg in any way. 

“They need to sort this out for themselves, okay?” John had said. 

Sherlock had pursed his lips and jiggled his leg, but nodded begrudgingly.

Still, there were a lot of loopholes open to him, actions that didn’t involve coaxing, pushing, or harassing. Sherlock was allowed to talk to Greg. They were friends, after all, and that’s what friends did. 

Which was why Sherlock was standing at the doorstep of Greg’s semi-detached house and smiling at Greg’s ogle-eyed stare as he opened the door. His wet hair was sticking up in clumps from having the towel Greg held passed through it. He was clad only in a light blue t-shirt and pajama bottoms, which he’d hastily tugged on after emerging from the shower. The fabric clung to his skin in several small wet spots.

“What are you doing here?” Greg asked, confused. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Other than the cracked paint on this door, but you’ll be moving out soon, so no need to fuss over it. Are you going to let me in?”

Greg hesitated, brows drawn in annoyance, but after a moment he sighed, shoulders sagging, and stood back. 

“Sure, why not? Come in.”

Sherlock did so, taking in the foyer at a glance. It was a pretty typical house. 1990s construction, yet remodeled in a modern style. Crisp, off white walls. Pleasant art prints for decoration, along assorted knickknacks. A frame had once stood on a tall, slender table beside the door, where a small wicker basket held Greg’s keys and wallet. The size indicated the sort that usually held family portraits. It had clearly been a picture of Susan, or Susan and Greg together. The were various such instances visible through the sitting room, as well. The pair were quite fond of photographs. There were obvious gaps between the remaining ones on tables and on one of the walls of the sitting room where some had been removed. What remained were of Greg, relatives and friends. Not shared friends, surely. None of the furniture had been dusted in ages, although the floor had at least been swept within the past week. A stack of cardboard boxes was wedged between the fridge and the counter. A coating of dust clung to their upper edges. Greg had purchased the boxes, had stored them in the first place that he could think of to get them out of the way, and hadn’t bothered to put them anywhere else. 

There wasn’t much point in doing so if he was moving out soon, for that was their purpose. Nor did he have anyone to impress in the meantime. Greg visited Mycroft more than Mycroft visited him. A friend had come over recently, as there were two beer glasses on the drying board. Not today, though. The hour didn’t fit, nor did the water stains on the glasses. Last night. Greg just couldn’t be bothered to clear up. Lack of time might also be responsible, but the remote on the sofa, recent box of Thai takeaway on the coffee table, and head imprint on a side cushion indicated that Greg had taken his time heading up to shower after coming home from work. 

“Seen all you want to see?” Greg asked behind him.

Sherlock flinched inwardly at the peeved tone in Greg’s voice. Not quite angry. It took a lot for Greg to get angry at him. Yet he was uncomfortably close to it. Why? Sherlock hadn’t done or said anything to annoy him, had he?

“I merely want to know how you are,” Sherlock said.

“Just ask, then.”

“Last time I did, you lied to me.”

Greg’s face dropped slightly in chagrin and he crossed his arms, glancing down.

“I just didn’t want to talk about it, okay? And I didn’t lie. Revealing that I’m a werewolf did go great. I just didn’t mention the other stuff.”

“This other stuff was highly relevant. You gave me the impression that you were fine when you’re not.”

Greg’s eyes softened.

“I appreciate that you’re worried about me. Really, I do. But I’m coping. I just need some time, okay? I’ll be fine.”

“Why don’t you want to talk to me about it? You did the last time I asked how you were, even though you hid half of the relevant information then, too.”

“I already apologized for that.”

“I don’t want another apology. I want to know how you are. That’s what friends do, isn’t it? I thought we were supposed to be closer now since we cuddled together, or does that only apply to shapeshifters? You talked to John about Mycroft and you just met him.”

Greg grimaced at the accusation, looking guilty. Finally. 

“It’s not like that,” he said. “Or course we’re friends. And yeah, we’re closer now, and you were good about listening to me that time at your flat, but it’s a little awkward talking about this with you.”

“Because I’m Mycroft’s brother.”

“Well, yeah. I don’t want you to feel like you’re in the middle here.”

“Why would I be? I thought you wanted to get back together with him. Is there something else I don’t know about?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Yes, I want to get back together, if he stops being pigheaded about not interfering in my future happiness. I don’t think kids are in the cards for me anymore. I told him that.”

“So did I. At your age, the chances are slim if you want to have any chance of keeping up with them, which you do. Best face facts now and avoid false hopes. I told Mycroft that he was being an idiot. When isn’t he, really? I honestly don’t see what you see in him, but I don’t want you to be unhappy, so if you must, I suppose that’s fine. I could have worse for a brother-in-law.” 

Greg regarded him with a hint of awe.

“If that had come from anyone else, I’d be insulted, but from you, it sounds like approval.”

Sherlock shuffled his feet, digging his hands into his coat pockets.

“Don’t get soppy on me. I’m just saying. Besides, you don’t need my approval.”

“No, but it’s nice all the same.”

Sherlock dug his heel into a crease between the floorboards. He had been made to suffer too much sentimentality in the last few days. He itched for his violin and a nice cuppa from Mrs. Hudson.

“Mycroft says you need time,” he said, not looking up from the floor. “So take time. If Mycroft is still being stupid, send him to me. I’ll knock some sense into him, as little as he’s capable of.”

A smile jerked on Greg’s face, only for a second, but it was something, at least.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea considering how well you two get along, but thanks for the offer. Listen, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to make you feel left out. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, that’s all.”

“It’s far too late for that. I had to endure a heart to heart with Mycroft. It was unbearable.”

“How is he?” Greg asked, looking as if he would be heartbroken if Sherlock said that he was doing poorly. Christ, maybe Greg had been right in leaving him out. If Sherlock had to act as mediator, he would run away to Dover again and not come back until Mycroft and Greg were sharing a bed again.

“He’s terrified of feelings, like always. You are aware that you want to tie yourself to someone who treats caring for people like some sort of irritating disease?”

Greg’s expression turned wry. He crossed his arms and shook his head slowly, as if it were amusing. What exactly was funny about what Sherlock had just said?

“I know,” Greg said. “He cares too much and it scares him. He doesn’t like not being in control of himself. That’s why he’s always pushing me away, isn’t it?”

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded stiffly.

“I thought so,” Greg said.

“I told him to cut it out.”

“I hope he listens. I love him, but he can be so impossible sometimes.”

Sherlock perked up.

“Are we going to complain about Mycroft now? Please say yes. I’m dying to, but John and Mrs. Hudson are sick of hearing me go on about him.”

Greg frowned.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, please. Isn’t complaining about your ex something else friends do? I saw that on telly somewhere. As your friend, I insist that you tell me everything you don’t like about my brother. Spare no detail.”

Sherlock rushed to sit down on the sofa and leaned forward on his elbows, looking up at Greg expectantly, mentally willing him to let loose about what a prat Mycroft was. Greg rolled his eyes and rubbed his face, left hand on his hip, but his resistance was flagging.

“I’m merely asking as your friend,” Sherlock said, adopting an expression of pure innocence.

Greg snorted.

“Yeah, right. Fine. Just for five minutes, okay? That’s it.”

Sherlock wiggled in anticipation.


	21. Chapter 21

John called him the next evening while Mycroft ate his dinner, his usual Indian takeaway. It had become a habit of theirs to communicate regularly since John revealed his secret to him. Mycroft hasn’t been able to contain his curiosity, although he had backed off when he sensed that he was taking advantage of John’s good nature and irritating him by pressing too hard. John assured him that he was already used to the endless barrage of questions from Sherlock, but unlike his brother, Mycroft did have a sense of when he was imposing. Their conversations had tapered off in the last couple of weeks. John had told him all that he was willing to, and John had unburdened himself of his initial reactions to 221B Baker Street. As expected, he had been charmed by Mrs. Hudson and her homey abode, and horrified by the contents of Sherlock’s kitchen. 

_He just sticks body parts next to the food?_ John had vented. _How hasn’t he gotten sick? I promised I wouldn’t tell him what to do in his own flat, but really. How is it too much to ask that he get a separate fridge for these things?_

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock knew that John was criticizing his living habits like this with him. The poor man felt awful about talking behind his back and cut himself off before going much further, but how could anyone fault him for being upset by Sherlock’s utter lack of hygiene? Mycroft certainly wouldn’t consume anything made in that kitchen. When he was there, he only ever had tea prepared by Mrs. Hudson in her own kitchen. Mycroft hoped that John would change his mind about letting Sherlock risk his health like this, and insist that he adopt a proper system for keeping his specimens. Lord knew that he’d never listen to Mycroft, but he might to his partner. Sherlock had always had a better track record of heeding his friends over his family. Although, in the case of their parents, that wasn’t a bad thing to do. 

“Hello, John,” Mycroft answered the phone, putting down his fork. 

“Hi,” John said. 

His tone was one of measured cheer, the kind one adopted when speaking to someone who was upset and needed cheering up. Was that what he thought Mycroft needed? Sherlock had promised to keep what Mycroft told him to himself, but now that Greg and John were friends, Greg might have felt the need to unburden himself with his new friend. The fact that John knew Mycroft as well would certainly make matters easier to explain. 

“How are you doing?” John asked. 

“I’m alright. Am I correct in assuming that your enquiry is concerning my recent interaction with Greg?”

“Well, yeah. Sherlock didn’t tell me anything. Don’t worry. Greg did tell me other stuff, though. I just wanted to know how you’re doing with all that.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’m as well as can be expected. I’m not about to fall apart at any moment, so no need to worry.”

“No, I didn’t think that. I just… Wanted to check up, that’s all.”

Mycroft shifted in his seat.

“I’m afraid that I’m not accustomed to conversing about personal matters such as this, not even with Sherlock in most cases.”

“Right. Sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything. I didn’t mean to imply that. I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

“John,” Mycroft interrupted before John could finish his fumbling towards hanging up the phone. 

“Yeah?”

Mycroft rolled the fork between his fingers.

“I can tell that your concern is genuine. It is appreciated.”

“Sure. Of course. You are Sherlock’s brother, after all. We haven’t spoken much aside from selkie stuff and, well, Sherlock, but I do care. What happens to you, I mean.”

Mycroft smiled. Poor John was tying himself into knots with all that rambling. Yet what he said was oddly touching. Mycroft had certainly not received any similar declaration from Victor, although they hadn’t interacted anywhere near as much, or as intimately, even after years of Victor being in Sherlock’s life. Mycroft had referred to John as his brother-in-law earlier, but that had been to tease Sherlock, not as any sort of serious declaration. However, family relationships were very close in John’s culture. He might have considered Mycroft to be just that since he got together with Sherlock. For the second time in as many days, Mycroft found himself oddly at a loss as to what to say. 

“Thank you,” he said. It would be bad form not to express gratitude, wouldn’t it, even if he had done so just a minute before. “That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s not just kindness. Since you are Sherlock’s brother, well… I know we haven’t been together long, but my culture is a bit quicker about these things.”

“You mean that you’ve considered me your brother-in-law since your relationship’s commencement. I suspected that might be the case.”

“Yes. Although the in-law part feels a little weird to me. We don’t really think of it that way. But it’s the same basic principle otherwise. Are you comfortable with that? Is it too soon?”

“Not at all.” A warm feeling had joined the awkwardness in Mycroft’s chest. Interesting. “I am pleased to consider you as such. I am very grateful for how much you care for Sherlock, and I apologize for my earlier doubts about you two moving ahead too quickly.”

“No problem. You were just protecting your brother. I get it. You have nothing to worry about, I promise you. On that note, though, you are going to back off like you said, right? You have been a bit overbearing.”

“That’s rather restrained coming from someone who, as Sherlock loves to put it, I kidnapped.”

“Oh, you most definitely kidnapped me. It’s just that reprimanding you would kind of go against the purpose of this call, so I’m being nice. But seriously, cut that out. It’s not okay.”

Mycroft grinned despite himself. John was quite amusing sometimes. 

“I have promised to do so, and I will. Sherlock is free to do as he wishes, with whoever he wishes, without my knowledge.” 

As much as the idea terrified Mycroft. 

“Thank you. I know that’s hard for you. I mean, it’s the right thing to do. Spying on your brother is not okay, but I understand why you did it.”

“Please, John, there is no need to spare my feelings just because of your reasons behind this call. You can be honest with me.”

“I am being honest. I’m not saying I would have done the same thing, but I understand the urge. Besides, I think Sherlock covered the yelling part yesterday.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, sitting up straighter in his chair. 

“Quite. Returning to the original purpose of your call, I am well. I will be patient in giving Greg all the time he needs without complaint. I may have been a tad overwhelmed after our last conversation, but I’m settled now. There’s no need for you to worry.”

“Okay. That’s good to hear. Well, um, I’ll let you get back to it, then.”

“Have a good evening, John. And… Thank you.”

“Sure thing. Bye.”

Mycroft put his phone down and picked up his fork, but didn’t touch his food. His brow wrinkled. That warm feeling in his chest remained.


	22. Chapter 22

“And then we spent half an hour complaining about Mycroft,” Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson the next day, grinning from ear to ear. “God it was glorious.”

Mrs. Hudson cast him a disapproving glance as she reached for her coat inside the wardrobe by the back door. She was taking Sherlock out to a chamber music concert to cheer up his spirits while he missed John, although his mood had gotten a lovely boost yesterday. He had even managed to get out of the house and to Barts to conduct experiments on dead tissue.

“I thought you and Mycroft were getting along better,” she said.

Sherlock scrunched up his face. 

“I only find him a fraction less irritating. And I’ll believe it when I see it about him backing off. I wouldn’t put it past him to lie to me about it.”

“I’ll have a word with him if he does. Mycroft has been allowed to get away with that for far too long.”

Sherlock grinned again.

“Can I watch this time?”

“I don’t think it would as effective if you’re there. He’d be too embarrassed.”

“But that’s half the fun. You enjoyed it last time, didn’t you? God, I wish I’d skipped going to Greg’s office and come straight here. Greg’s case was rubbish, anyway. You enjoyed it, didn’t you? It’s so much fun to upbraid him. He gets all skittish and doesn’t know what to do with himself. You should have seen him on Monday. Gaping at me like a fish. I haven’t seen Mycroft speechless in ages. I should have taken a picture. Damn it, there’s a missed opportunity. I could have had it framed over the mantelpiece for him to look at every time that he stopped by.”

Despite her earlier reprimand, Mrs. Hudson’s lips twitched upwards for a second before she smoothed then back down.

“I’m not sure whether to be glad or sorry that you didn’t take that picture,” she said. “There have been times when I’ve let Marge have it. Oh, the look on her face… I would have liked to have framed that.”

Marge, Mrs. Hudson’s sister, was much easier to get along with than Mycroft from what Sherlock heard, but the sisters did have their rows on occasion. 

“I’m ready,” Mrs. Hudson announced, fastening a violet scarf around her neck. “Oh, before I forget. Did you have a dog at your flat earlier? I found all these hairs when I was sweeping yesterday. Too many for you to have just tracked in.”

Sherlock did not panic. Why should he when she had provided a handy excuse?

“Yes, Greg brought his cousin’s dog. It’s a husky. He was dog sitting for the weekend. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, it’s fine. I thought some of the hairs looked like a husky’s, but a couple of others looked different. Thicker and dark brown.”

Why was Mrs. Hudson peering at him like that? She didn’t look like she was trying to catch him at a lie, was she? Had her tone been a bit more pointed when she described the latter hairs? John’s seal hairs? Damn it, Sherlock should have thought of that. Maybe he should do his own sweeping from now on. Oh, who was he kidding? He wasn’t going to do that. 

“Greg must have tracked that in, then. You know how much he likes petting dogs at the park.”

“Hm, I guess so. Well, it doesn’t matter. Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

“No, we don’t.”

Sherlock rushed past her toward the front door and away from her definitely suspicious gaze. _Stop it_ , he reprimanded himself. How could she possibly suspect that there had been a selkie and a werewolf in her building three days ago? She probably just thought that Sherlock had a secret pet or something. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

`````````````````

“Mrs. Hudson knows something,” Sherlock told John.

He was lying on John’s chest back in his house, arms wrapped around his torso. He had refused to let him go for more than a few minutes since he pulled up outside in one of Mrs. Hudson’s cars. She had lent it to him so that he wouldn’t have to pay the train fare or be beholden to their timetable. John brushed his hair, the lack of difference in his gentle motion at Sherlock’s revelation indicating that he didn’t believe him. 

“I don’t see how she could,” John said. “She’s human as far as I can tell. We haven’t done or said anything suspicious around her, and most humans don’t automatically think ‘selkie’ when they find animal hair on the floor. She probably thinks it’s something else.”

Sherlock looked up at John.

“But what if she finds out? I didn’t handle it well and I’m much younger than her.”

John frowned and rubbed Sherlock’s cheek.

“You’re worried it might affect her nerves?”

“Panic is the most likely reaction, John. That’s what I did.”

“Not everyone panics, though,” John said, but he began to look pensive. “Some people are delighted. And she’s pretty sturdy. Look, we’ll be careful, alright? I don’t have to transform while I’m there.”

“You shouldn’t have to hold yourself back. How likely is it that we’ll be able to keep the secret, anyway, between you and Greg?”

“She’s known Greg for years and hasn’t suspected. I don’t mind her knowing, really. We can ease her into the subject if you’re worried about her reaction. I won’t just spring it on her like I did with you, I promise.”

That wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

“Okay. Let’s try that.”

“Now let’s get back to relaxing, okay? I’ve missed you. The house is too quiet without you in it.”

Sherlock smiled, worry replaced by warmth as he admired the soft affection on John’s face. God, he could spend hours in a quiet study of John’s every feature.

“Likewise. I’ve been climbing on the walls.”

“You have Mrs. Hudson, though.”

Sherlock clutched him tighter.

“I don’t do this with her.”

John snorted.

“I would hope not. Let’s lie here for a bit, then we can go to the beach.”

“So you can show off your swimming skills for me?”

“Oi. I’m not the biggest showoff here.”

The weekend passed much too quickly. Sherlock returned to London on Monday morning in the midst of commuter traffic, but no way was he wasting an extra night by coming back early. Mrs. Hudson received him with crumpets from his favorite bakery and tickets to another concert on Tuesday. Leaving John still stung. The flat felt much too empty. Mrs. Hudson might be there, but she wasn’t John. 

He escaped to Barts to continue his experiments, unable to concentrate in his own kitchen. Greg saved him for a couple of days with a robbery and homicide on Wednesday. Only a six, but it scratched the itch. The man himself also provided a much more fascinating study than he ever had before, although there was no new information to be gained. His divorce was proceeding with all the sluggishness that these legal matters took, and he was in no less of a depressed slump over it. He hadn’t spoken to Mycroft, but Sherlock lacked the experience to tell if that was bad or simply part of the process. Mrs. Hudson told him that it was the latter.

“I know it’s hard for you,” she said, “but you need to be patient. These things don’t resolve themselves overnight.”

Of course not. He knew that. He wasn’t completely incapable of understanding other people’s feelings. But couldn’t they hurry it up and get back together already? He hated this worrying that his mind kept doing without his consent. He was usually so good about shoving all these emotions away when they were being irrelevant so that he could focus on his work, but now they kept niggling at him like mosquitoes puncturing his skin no matter how much bug repellent he sprayed on himself. How did other people manage this feeling thing all the time? It was smothering him. Then there was Mrs. Hudson. She had mentioned some story about seeing a ghost as a child, so the supernatural wasn’t completely beyond her consideration. But selkies and werewolves were another matter. He had been frightened for days, unable to sleep, but she wasn’t logic-based like him, so maybe she would handle it better. She was tougher than she looked. Maybe John was right and he making too much of a fuss. 

He still didn’t dare broach the subject. She didn’t mention the mysterious “dog” hairs again, which was just as well. John could deal with it when he was here. Provide material proof. Maybe it would be better if Greg did it first. Mrs. Hudson had known him longer, so she had more trust in him. But would he do it? Sherlock needed to stop thinking about this. It was driving him mad. Even Mrs. Hudson noticed, which made everything worse.

“What’s the matter, Sherlock?” she asked Saturday morning when she found him pacing in the sitting room.

“Nothing,” he said, continuing his pacing.

“Sure, because pacing up and down is what you do when nothing’s wrong. Something’s been bothering you all week. Here, have your tea.”

She placed the tray on the desk and poured him a cup. 

“I wanted coffee today.”

“Well, I’m not telepathic. Take your cup.”

Sherlock scowled but did as he was told and took a sip, savoring the bittersweet taste. That did help a little.

“There’s nothing at all the matter with me except for Mycroft and Greg being impossible and the wretched criminals in this city being boring and not doing anything remotely interesting for ages and my brain rotting out of lack of stimulation and John’s train being late. It’s late. Trains aren’t supposed to be late. Don’t they have some precious timetable to adhere to? And while he thinks it’s sweet that I want to pick him up at the station, he wants to come here on his own this time. To normalize our comings and goings, he says. Sure. Fine. I can see his point. But that leaves me waiting here for an extra John-less half hour, except now it’s a John-less hour and twenty minutes because the bloody train is late.”

“It will pass quickly enough, dear. Just try to distract yourself until he gets here.”

“How? How am I supposed to focus when I can’t even think?”

Yet he still reached for his violin case and put it on the table, taking out the bow and tightening the horse hair. Hang on. This was a good chance to broach the subject of supernatural creatures.

“I have been working on a new composition,” he said. “But I don’t see how I could possibly focus on it now. It’s about sea creatures, and thinking about the sea reminds me of Dover, which reminds me of John.”

Mrs. Hudson sat on the armchair facing the window.

“What kind of sea creatures?”

“Mythological ones, actually. Selkies and the like.”

Mrs. Hudson frowned in surprise. 

“You’ve never been interested in that sort of thing. You’re always calling it nonsense and saying that you’re going to delete it from your memory.”

Sherlock fidgeted with the frog of his bow, as if he were embarrassed by the admission of having changed his mind about something he was formerly so adamant about. 

“Well, uh, John is into that stuff. And there is a certain aesthetic value to it, I suppose. My inspiration may have been stagnating for a bit and he helped me jump start it again. It is rather interesting from an artistic point of view. Shakespeare used all sorts of mythology in his works all the time and that’s the same level of… fanciful folklore.”

God, maybe it would be better to just tell her already. Dancing around this was surprisingly difficult. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re expanding your horizons. It is a fascinating subject. Werewolves, merpeople, fairies. It’s very fun to think about. Not that you would consider believing in any of that stuff.”

Sherlock made a non-committal sound as he raised his violin to his shoulder and tuned the strings. He took an experimental swipe with his bow. He should keep pushing the subject, but it was awkward and he was tired. Besides, John had said that he would take the lead on this, and he wasn’t here. Mrs. Hudson listened to him play a piece of his composition and a couple of concertos, then they watched another one of those loud movies while waiting for John to arrive. When the doorbell finally rang, Sherlock jumped off the sofa and ran down the stairs, ignoring his aching ankle. John stood outside the door, hair tousled by the wind and a bright smile on his beautiful face.

“Finally,” Sherlock said, hugging him and pressing their foreheads together, laying a kiss on his nose.

“I’m happy to see you, too,” John said, a laugh on his voice as he held Sherlock just as closely. 

Sherlock pulled back much too soon, but people were looking at them and he needed to get this over with.

“I told Mrs. Hudson that you inspired me to work on a composition about fantastical sea creatures. I played a little of it for her. That’s not what the composition was about, but never mind. She said that the subject was fascinating and fun to think about, so there’s that.”

“Okay, that’s something. Let’s just get inside.”

The door of Mrs. Hudson’s flat opened behind them. There she was. Best get this over with. Unless John thought it was too soon and put it off even longer. It was his secret, after all. Sherlock didn’t really get a say in it. 

“It’s so good to see you again,” Mrs. Hudson said as she emerged, all smiles at John, who smiled back. “Poor Sherlock has been so eager for you to get here.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

They hugged. John had tried to be formal in his goodbye last time by awkwardly offering a hand to shake, but Mrs. Hudson had brushed it off and pulled him into a hug. 

“I hope the extra wait wasn’t too boring on your end,” John said. “It was on mine. I finished my book with over forty minutes left on the train. But Sherlock says that he played that composition he’s working on for you. It’s nice, right? I’ve always been interested in selkies and the like. Sherlock’s been indulging me.”

John paused for Mrs. Hudson to respond, but she only peered between the two of them with a shrewd, “come off it” expression on her face, like they were being insufferably dense.

“What?” Sherlock asked. “Why are you looking at us like that?”

“Honestly,” she said, “You two keep dancing around the subject. It’s endearing, but you can just come out and say it. I would have myself, but I wanted to make sure that you were on board, John. I know how important secrecy is in these matters.”

A look of understanding came over John’s face and he huffed with a surprised laugh. Well, Sherlock wasn’t bloody laughing. 

“How could you possibly have known?” Sherlock asked. “Wait. Are we sure that we’re both talking about the same thing?”

“John is a selkie and Greg is a werewolf, aren’t they?”

“You know about Greg, too? How? I didn’t bloody know.”

“You weren’t looking for it. I’ve known for years, not that I think he’s noticed. This isn’t my first time meeting non-humans. I know what wolf hair looks like. I couldn’t have been certain about John’s, though, if I hadn’t already figured it out from your story. A seal just popped out of the blue and rescued you. And John showed up right after? Of course he’s a selkie. He’s even the right height.”

John burst out laughing at that.

“I fear that we owe you an apology for underestimating you,” he said. 

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Hudson said. “You would have been right to be cautious in most cases.” She turned toward Sherlock with a soft, compassionate look bordering on pity. “You had a rough time accepting that the world isn’t the way you thought, didn’t you, dear?”

Sherlock pulled himself upright.

“No, I didn’t.”

John closed his mouth, looking awkward.

“Oh, stop it,” Sherlock said. “Fine, so I wasn’t jumping for joy at having my world view upended, but I came around soon enough, didn’t I? Don’t tell me you were so calm when you first found out, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I was a little scared at first, but that faded within a few minutes. Mostly I was excited. I was ten on holiday in Wales. I hadn’t reached the age yet where you stop believing that fairies and trolls are real. And I never did. So when a huge horse with a seaweed mane fished me out of the lake where I had swum in too deep, I was ecstatic. My parents saw it all, but wouldn’t believe that it was a kelpie and not some strange horse that had run off from some farm somewhere. But I knew I wasn’t imagining things. They weren’t comfortable taking me swimming anymore after that, but I went back when I was old enough to go on my own, hoping that the kelpie was still there. It took me a couple of trips, but I did find her. She remembered me. She lives in a town not far from the lake. Very friendly once I convinced her that I wasn’t going to tell anybody and was just curious. We still keep in touch. I’ve met a few other non-humans since then.”

“That’s wonderful,” John said. “Kelpies aren’t always friendly to those who stray into their lakes, but they don’t hurt kids. So, this makes things a lot easier. We don’t have to explain anything to you.”

We? Why was John including him in this assessment? What could Sherlock possibly have to contribute when he couldn’t see the truth staring at him in the face? Greg’s wolf hairs had been right on his clothes and he still couldn’t tell!

“Sherlock?” John asked, frowning at him and placing a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock vibrated under his hand, shuffling his feet and scratching his palms with his fingernails.

“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be? I only didn’t see the obvious for years and years. Mycroft was right. My observational skills are rubbish.”

He plopped down on the steps, dropping his head morosely into his hands.

“What?” John said, appalled. “They’re not rubbish. Did he seriously say that?”

“When we were children. Not that he’s ever stopped lording over me how much more brilliant he is.”

“You didn’t know what to look for,” Mrs. Hudson said, laying her hand on Sherlock’s other arm. “You used to be so convinced that all this was impossible. You’re always going on about needing to eliminate the impossible first when making deductions, so how were you supposed to get at it when you had already discounted it to begin with?”

“Exactly,” John said. “Besides, if Mycroft is so much more observant than you, how come he didn’t notice either?”

Sherlock raised his head, eyes widening. 

“You’re right,” he said, smiling. “I’m not the only idiot here.”

“You’re not an idiot,” John said.

“He’s even more of one. He was even sleeping with Greg for months. Going out. Having breakfast together. Years and he never noticed a thing.”

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and opened the text app.

“He didn’t know what to look for, either,” John said.

“Never mind that. He still failed to see the obvious right in front of his nose.”

 _Congratulations_ , Sherlock texted Mycroft. _You’re just as simple as I am. Mrs. Hudson has known that Greg is a werewolf for as long as you have known him, yet you couldn’t tell._

“I think I better tell Greg that I know,” Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head, but never mind her disapproval. “Now where did I leave my phone?”

She went back into her flat.

“You done celebrating yet?” John asked Sherlock, amused.

“Not even close. He’s never going to live this one down.” Sherlock stood up, grinning. “I feel so much better now. Upstairs?”

“Please.”

```````````````````````

Mycroft replied with the same excuse about not considering the impossible that Mrs. Hudson had mentioned. Sherlock refused to leave him off the hook. Greg, for his part, was astonished and embarrassed that he hadn’t caught on that Mrs. Hudson had noticed. Normally, Sherlock wouldn’t derive any comfort from being equally as bewildered as Greg, but it did provide some relief this time. Everyone was in bad form today, including John. But Sherlock was over it. He was too busy being fascinated by Mrs. Hudson’s tales of riding kelpies, befriending a wood sprite, and having escapades with no less than a werewolf and a selkie.

“You’re not the only one,” she said, smirking at Sherlock.

John had ducked his head, cheeks flushing, but he smiled, squeezing Sherlock’s hand under the table. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson kept the more salacious details to herself, but the way that she weaved in and out of non-human communities despite these not being overly friendly towards humans was fascinating. Instructive, too. Sherlock was technically doing the same even though John had no connection to his own. How had she kept all this to herself for all these years? Sherlock had asked about her past before, but she had pretended that it was all ordinary and boring. Childhood outside London. Uni. Exotic dancing. Having a row with Marge once a year. Marrying a drug dealer. Absolutely nothing suggesting such an interesting array of connections enmeshed in the midst of all that. 

None of them were holding back now. John was free to transform whenever he wanted without worry, and he did to Mrs. Hudson’s delight. John thoroughly acquainted himself with Mrs. Hudson’s flat in seal form, cheerfully hopping about and snuggling up to the two of them on the sofa while Sherlock filled her in about the aspects of his month-long stay in Dover that he couldn’t get into before. Sherlock and John had planned on going to the National Gallery, but they stayed in all day enjoying their newfound freedom, postponing it for the next day. They did go on Sunday morning, but cut it short because Greg came over to the flat. Now that Sherlock was over (almost over) not being able to see the obvious, he could enjoy Greg’s lingering amazement that he hadn’t been able to keep his closely guarded secret from Mrs. Hudson for more than two months. Really quite embarrassing when you thought about it. A repeat of two weekends before ensued with the addition of Mrs. Hudson. John and Greg shifted into their animal forms and snuggled together, as well as with everyone else. Sherlock curled up with John on the floor for a while, since John’s seal form was too bulky for the two of them to be on the sofa. Sherlock wrapped himself around him, John’s snout resting on his collarbone, and closed his eyes, listening to Mrs. Hudson coo over Greg’s cuter form as she pet him on the sofa. Contentment washed over Sherlock, a smile growing on his face. 

But not even the memory of this kept his depression from slamming into him the next day. It had become routine by now. Every Monday, he turned into a sad sack on the bed or the sofa or whatever surface he couldn’t muster the energy to push himself up from as he pined for John, smothered by the silence of the flat when Mrs. Hudson wasn’t around to try to cheer him up, an endeavor that never worked, anyway. Was it too early to ask John to move in with him? Mycroft would probably say yes, but what did he know? Never mind that his relationship with Greg was longer than Sherlock’s with John’s. He still barely knew anything about it. Case in point, what a clusterfuck he’d made of said relationship. Mycroft had no clue what he was doing, and any attempt to make it appear otherwise was laughable. Yet Sherlock was in such a wretched state that he couldn’t manage to find anything amusing in it, as he normally did when Mycroft put on a ridiculous pretense that was obvious to anyone with even a fraction of sense. 

Yet it still wasn’t fair for Sherlock to ask John to move in. John needed the ocean. The Thames was a poor substitute, even if John could swim in it, which he couldn’t, so what was the point in dwelling on it? John’s weekend swims were the last bit of his home that he had left, and Sherlock had already taken half of those away with their arrangement. Maybe Sherlock should go to Dover every weekend. Why should John have to miss out on that? But John liked seeing Mrs. Hudson, especially now, and he’d bonded with Greg. Sherlock hadn’t considered how necessary bonding with a fellow shapeshifter was until he saw John and Greg together. They were always more relaxed after a snuggle. John claimed that he preferred Sherlock’s cuddles, that it was different, that one type wasn’t a replacement for the other. So John did need to come to London regularly. But he couldn’t be here all the time. So what then? They were doomed to be miserable five days out of the week? For John was just as dejected by the separation as Sherlock was. Their nightly video calls were filled with the usual “I miss you”s, although Sherlock never admitted exactly how beaten down he had felt that day so John wouldn’t feel bad and worry. John never said as much, either, but Sherlock knew there was more than the exhaustion of dealing with patients in his eyes and his slumped posture. But what else could they do? Sherlock couldn’t think of a damn thing. 

Sherlock spent more time than ever at the lab at Barts until he got sick of the place, something which he hadn’t thought was possible. When was chemical research not joyful and stimulating? The criminals of London continued to be boring, so no help there. Maybe another fascinating crime would arise in Dover, but what were the chances of that happening any time soon? Infodumping to Mrs. Hudson about the latest thing he had read got boring after a while, as did watching telly. He tried to read, but only managed it in fits and starts. He sent Mycroft pictures of ugly outfits to annoy him, but it backfired, as Sherlock was also horrified by the visual travesty. Walking helped. The fresh air. Exercise. The soothing balm of pleasing architecture and the rumble of city life. Yet as soon as he returned home and the walls shut themselves up around him, he wanted to curl up into a ball. 

On Friday night, he said the hell with commuter traffic, texted John that he was coming over, got into Mrs. Hudson’s car, and drove to Dover. John didn’t complain. Not in the least. He greeted Sherlock at the door with a wide smile and sparkling eyes, pulling him into a thorough nuzzle before leading him inside and placing a plate of hot food in front of him. A snuggle followed, then John transformed and went off to sleep in his study. Sherlock scrunched his brow and almost called him back. He didn’t want John to keep leaving the bed. Sherlock’s own had grown unbearably lonely of late. But John was already off. It was late. John might not want to sleep with him. This felt like the sort of thing that they should discuss first. That’s how they had been operating so far and it was working well. Sherlock would bring it up later.


	23. Chapter 23

They headed for the beach after breakfast, walking along the shoreline for a bit before settling at their usual spot, Sherlock in his chair and John shifting into seal form. Sherlock wished to join him, but the water was freezing. He would probably have to wait until summer to join John in the water. 

“It will soon be here,” John said, kissing Sherlock’s scrunched brow. “You just have to be a little patient, okay?”

Patient? Why did Sherlock always have to be patient? Why couldn’t things just go faster? He sighed, sinking back in his canvas seat. John smiled, amused by the display. Sherlock had been confused by this reaction at first, but had grown to understand that John wasn’t having a laugh at his expense. Apparently, the look on Sherlock’s face when he was annoyed at the world was “cute”. Cute was the last thing that Sherlock felt like, but he wasn’t going to say no to John admiring his face. John’s cheerful acrobatics in the water helped, too. John always knew how to make him smile. How had Sherlock managed without him for so long? After John swam off into deeper water, Sherlock alternated between reading a book on a 19th-century poisoner and walking along the shoreline until he got tired of the uneven footing. Once John returned, they cuddled on the sand, Sherlock spooning John, forehead pressed against the top of John’s head. Seals couldn’t smile, not technically, but he swore that the upturned curve of John’s mouth was curled into a happy grin. 

If only that could have lasted through the next day. Mothering Sunday was bound to bring unpleasant associations for the both of them. Doubly painful ones in John’s case. His mother had died when he was a teenager, then his family had ousted him like a piece of rotten rubbish. Sherlock didn’t feel like he had the right to complain about his own reluctance to celebrate his own mother with John looking so glum as they prepared breakfast that morning. He kept gazing wistfully out the window, sadness in his eyes, but Sherlock’s inquiries about his wellbeing resulted only in forced smiles and a halfhearted,

“I’m okay. I’m used to it. My mood will pass. It helps a lot having you here to take my mind off things.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, then stood up on his tiptoes to kiss his cheek before turning back to the kettle and pouring them two cups.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

John smiled at him again. It reached his eyes this time, at least. 

“I appreciate the offer, but just having you here is all I need. Thank you.”

Sherlock hesitated, fingers working uselessly at his sides. There should be something he could do for John. But John would be annoyed if he kept insisting. He’d just do his best to distract John and not mention mothers.

Except that he couldn’t do that because he did actually have to call his own mother, as Mycroft so irritatingly reminded him by ringing him. At least he had the decency to wait until after they finished breakfast, not that he had any way of knowing. Nothing indicated that Mycroft hadn’t kept his word and backed off on surveilling Sherlock. It better stay that way. As soon as Mycroft’s name appeared on his mobile screen, Sherlock groaned, dropped the plates he was carrying on the counter, and went upstairs so he wouldn’t subject John to their conversation. 

“It’s far too early to have to listen to your voice,” Sherlock answered, pacing around the bedroom.

“Have you called mummy yet?” Mycroft asked, ignoring Sherlock’s snippiness. Of course that’s what this call was about.

“In a minute. It’s only 11.”

“You know she gets upset if you tarry too long.”

“I’ll call as soon as I hang up with you, alright? I don’t know why you worry so much about upsetting her. She never worries about upsetting you.”

Sherlock regretted saying that as soon as he heard Mycroft’s distressed sigh on the line. He didn’t actually want to hurt Mycroft. But it was true, damn it al. 

“She’s still our mother,” Mycroft said. “I don’t want to completely sever relations with her.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. All I’m saying is that she’ll live if you don’t call her until the afternoon.”

“I’ll take it under consideration for next year. I’ve sent her a present from both of us.”

Mycroft had been doing so for years since Sherlock forgot one time in a drug-induced haze. Neither of his parents had been on his list of favorite people after they had shot down Mycroft for coming out to them as bi. Mycroft had always been their golden boy, their ambitious and well-mannered favorite, yet they had as much as thrown him to the curb because of who he liked spending his time with. 

“You don’t have to try so hard, you know,” Sherlock said.

“Try? I barely see her as it is. Either of them. You must hear the complaints about it.”

“Every time I call, which is why I almost never do. That and the constant questions on whether I’ve found someone yet. I’m sure that they’d be ecstatic to hear that I’ve chosen someone who lacks the proper equipment to give them a grandchild. Or be acceptable in their antiquated view of respectability.”

Mycroft sighed again. Their parents had made it clear that they expected Mycroft to keep his less “appropriate” desires a secret and marry a wife. After all, if he was bisexual and not just using that as a code for gay, he shouldn’t have any problem managing it, right? Sherlock hoped that Greg and John would never have to suffer meeting them. 

“There is a chance that they’ll grow to accept it,” Mycroft said, sounding so very certain of that.

“How likely do you think that is?”

“Not likely.”

Mycroft’s voice drooped even more. Sherlock could see him rubbing his forehead and closing his eyes in exhaustion. 

“I’ll call her,” Sherlock said. “But stop tying yourself into knots over this.”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

“It is for me.”

“Only since you latched onto Mrs. Hudson. You have someone else to rely on for maternal affection.”

“Mummy is hardly giving you much these days, anyway.”

“Well, it’s something, at least.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He had been right. Mycroft was envious of Sherlock’s relationship with Mrs. Hudson. The iceman who purported that caring was a weakness best avoided if possible just couldn’t help himself, could he? Hypocrite. He cared just as much as Sherlock did, whether he liked it or not. He had always eaten up their parents’ lavish praise, preening at every compliment, each “we’re so proud of you”, even as Sherlock wilted at their “why can’t you follow your brother’s example?”. Sure, why couldn’t Sherlock seek a job in government? Or become a famous musician, if he couldn’t do a proper job? Why did he have to throw his talents away solving crimes? For free, no less? How could he embarrass them by being a hopeless junkie? A failure? A blot on the family name? Why couldn’t he be more like Mycroft? 

Until Mycroft had ruined their perfect image of the son they thought they had, that is. Now Sherlock looked better in their eyes. At least he was straight and not hooking up with random strangers. He would find a respectable wife some day. He just needed a little time.

How little they knew. Maybe Sherlock should come out to them. Destroy their fantasy once and for all, and make it clear that either they accepted their children the way they were or they wouldn’t have them at all. 

“I’m only calling her for you,” Sherlock said, tapping furiously on the windowsill. “But I really wish you would stop caring so much.”

“Even I can’t manage that so easily, brother mine.”

````````````````

The phone call made, Sherlock stewed for a bit upstairs to settle himself, then went back downstairs to find that John had retreated outside and was sitting on the porch on the side of the house that faced the ocean. It was a small deck, made of hexagonal, red brick to create a flat surface that wouldn’t muddy with the rain. A glass, deck chair and a couple of wooden chairs sat atop it. Before Sherlock came along, John had mostly used the second chair as a footrest. John sat facing the ocean, leaning heavily on his arms against the table, face drawn with nostalgia for his past home. Sherlock sat down next to him, pulling up the chair so that their shoulders brushed together as Sherlock leaned against him as far as he could with the armrests in the way. It would be a lot easier to comfort John on the sofa or on the bench that John had mused about getting after Sherlock had complained that he couldn’t cuddle him out here. Sherlock should just buy it and declare it to be an early birthday present. Yet the small amount of contact made John smile, sad though his expression was. He took Sherlock’s right hand and tugged it on the table, encasing it in both of his. 

“How did it go?” he asked.

The breeze swept his hair into his eyes. Sherlock was distracted by the fluttering of the shiny strands for a moment before returning to the unpleasant subject at hand.

“It was annoying, but it’s done. Mummy regaled me with the usual complaints. I don’t call enough. Mycroft doesn’t call enough. No one calls enough, apparently. I had to bite my tongue to not tell her off about why that is exactly. I just said that I’m busy and I’m not responsible for Mycroft. I had to keep you out of my quick summary of what I’ve been up to, of course.” Sherlock scowled, leg jiggling. “I hate that. I don’t like hiding you, but it’s preferable than the alternative. She doesn’t want the truth of what I’m doing, anyway, if it’s something that she and daddy don’t approve of. She’d just wipe it from her mind. Pretend I never said anything.”

Sudden exhaustion swept over him. Why did his parents always have to ruin everything? It was 2019, for fuck’s sake. Who cared about respectability anymore except for old bigots who refused to accept that the world had moved on without them? John squeezed his hand and kissed his knuckles. Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder, tucking in as close as he could. Damn these armrests. He really needed to get that bench. 

“It doesn’t seem worth it to tell her, then,” John said. 

“No. But sometimes I want to burst and scream for them to get over themselves. It's all on the tip of my tongue, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t…” Sherlock groaned. Would Mycroft stop being right for two seconds? It was so tiresome. “I may hardly talk to them, but I don’t want to be completely cut off from them, either.”

John stiffened. Shit. Oh shit, shit, shit. Sherlock raised his head. John had dropped his own and stared sorrowfully at the table, lips pressed together so tightly that they were white. He clung to Sherlock’s hand, thumb moving restlessly over his skin. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t think.”

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t.”

John touched Sherlock’s cheek and gave him a quick kiss, but he barely met Sherlock’s eyes, looking on the verge of tears. Had Sherlock’s thoughtless comment affected him this much?

“I’m really sorry,” Sherlock said, sitting back, retreating from John’s touch.

John looked at him now, properly, eyes wide with confusion, then saddened by understanding. He sighed, a leaden breath, and grabbed Sherlock’s hand again, interlacing their fingers.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “You were just thinking out loud. Our situations are completely different. Your parents sound very different from mine. I made a choice. Now I have to live with the consequences. And it was for entirely different reasons, too. I think mum would have liked you.” John’s face grew wistful. “Except, well…”

“I’m human. I tie you to the land.”

John sucked in a deep, aching breath.

“Yeah. Temporary dalliances are okay. Committed relationships, not so much. But it doesn’t matter. Speculating just makes one feel worse, right? You know, maybe our parents aren’t that different. Dad wasn’t supportive of what I wanted, either. It’s probably just wishful thinking to hope that mum would have been. And Harry. The rest of them.”

John squinted as he gazed out at the ocean, his eyes growing shiny. He blinked rapidly. Sherlock stroked his hand with his thumb.

“It would be illegal for them to contact you,” Sherlock said, already knowing that wouldn’t be a comfort.

“Sure, but how often does that stop you? And you’re just solving cases, not seeking people you care about. Claimed to care about. But I’m the one who abandoned them, so it’s fine for them, isn’t it? Why should they want to have anything to do with me?”

John let go of Sherlock’s hand to drop his head into his own, He gasped, breath ragged, unable to hold his tears back anymore. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and hugged him to him as far as the armrests would let him. John pressed his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, breath hitching in intermittent sobs until he was spent and had no more tears left to give. His shallow breath gusted on Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock rubbed his head, massaging his scalp and pressing his lips to his hair, giving him as much comfort as he could. He didn’t speak, not knowing what the hell to say, but John didn’t mind. 

“We really have to get that bloody bench,” John said.

Sherlock laughed. He kissed his head.

“I told you.”


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock had been unruly as a child. Nothing had changed, really. Once he got a fixation in his head, there was no dissuading him from it, even if that included dressing up as a pirate in public. Including on their trips to France, as evidenced by the old video Mycroft was viewing. A family trip to the beaches of Nice wouldn’t be complete without pirate attire according to Sherlock. At least the setting made some sense, even if it was the wrong body of water for the stereotypical getup he favored. Their parents were so embarrassed by their little miscreant, but Sherlock would not be budged from their hotel room without his big tricorn, tattered blue bandana, red and white striped t-shirt, and ragged blue trousers. In the end, their parents had no recourse but to indulge him. It was either that or leave Mycroft to babysit the stubborn six-year-old in the room, and why should Mycroft be forced to stay behind just because Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to dress properly for one afternoon? 

As a teenager, Mycroft grew increasingly tired of his brother’s antics. Yet now, viewing the tapes that he had copied from their parents’ originals, he couldn’t help but smile at the curious child playing in the sand, using plastic buckets and shovels to build a small facsimile of one of the castles that they had visited the week before, so studious in his detail work, even if they were appalling by adult standards. His piping voice asked Mycroft to come help him. The camera panned to Mycroft, who sat on a towel reading a book and ignoring everyone as much as possible. In a few minutes, he would be off to walk alone and get away. Mummy sat on another towel next to him. They were both shaded by a broad, blue and white striped beach umbrella thrust into the sand. 

Mycroft’s smile turned bittersweet. He had been the apple of his parents’ eye back then, a position that he had never realized how much he cherished until they had gaped at him in appalled disapproval when he had come out to them six years ago. They had made sure to erase the conversation from their minds since then, pretending that it had never happened, and increasing their maddening attempts at matchmaking. He must have been introduced to every “acceptable” upper class, single woman by now, none of which had been remotely compatible past a night or two in some cases. At least most of them were as annoyed by their own parents’ meddling as he was, so they could commiserate. Said intrusion in his private life had yet to taper off, even after dodging these dates for the last five months via the excuse of being busy with more important work matters. As much as it would ease his relationship with his parents if he actually became interested in one of these women, having his company procured for him stung. They still wouldn’t accept who he really was, in any case. 

Besides, his current chances were decidedly male inclined courtesy of Greg, who interrupted his bleak musings by calling him. Smiling at his name on his mobile screen, Mycroft stood up and walked out of the screening room, leaving the beach scene playing behind him. They had been in communication since their talk, but in a limited fashion, reminiscent of when Greg had first gotten together with Susan. Greg needed the distance, yet it ached nonetheless. 

“Hello, Greg,” he answered as soon as he was outside.

“Hi. How are you doing?”

Mycroft warmed, both at the sound of Greg’s voice and the question, which wasn’t a mere formality. Greg knew perfectly well how trying this day could be after his botched coming out declaration. Greg always called him on Mothering Sunday to check up on him. At first, Mycroft had protested that there was no need, but Greg insisted. Who was Mycroft to deny him? 

“I was taking a trip down memory lane with some old family videos. Probably not the most advisable thing for a day such as this, but I do indulge in sentiment on occasion.”

“Way more than you give yourself credit for. Which video was it?”

Mycroft had shown Greg some of the tapes after much cajoling. Despite his embarrassment about showing Greg his younger, much less fit self, Greg had been charmed and called him “adorable”. Mycroft had never enjoyed the appellation before, but when it came from Greg cheerfully smiling and eyes sparkling with genuine appreciation, Mycroft had felt a blush creep up the back of his neck and awe burn in his belly. 

“Our trip to Nice when I was thirteen. At the beach. Sherlock is wearing that ridiculous getup.”

“Come on. He looks sweet. Little, pirate Sherlock. It makes so much sense. Seriously, one of these days I’m going to throw a fancy dress party just to see him dressed up like a pirate.”

“He has an outfit already. He won’t admit it, but he wears it around the flat when he’s bored.”

Mycroft always appreciated this. Greg didn’t insist that Mycroft talk about his feelings, which were the same year after year in any case. He moved straight on to a distracting topic of conversation, something that would make Mycroft smile. 

“I’m sure that John would love to play his first mate,” Greg said.

“Mm. There’s a picture. Sherlock might even be gracious enough to let me put it up on the wall. “

“Things are going really well between you, huh?”

“By our standards, I suppose. He’s being as irritating as always. I spent an entire day last week being subjected to him sending me photographs of the most hideous outfits.”

“Ouch. But he’s communicating with you. That’s great. Definitely a good sign.”

“Yes. It is.”

In his meandering down the corridor, Mycroft had strayed into his home study. He stopped in front of a photograph hanging on the wall opposite his desk. Sherlock smiled in the sun holding up a diploma, the last one he had ever received. He finished his Masters with honors, but couldn’t manage to do more than a year of doctoral course work. Still, it had been a proud day, a rare occasion when Sherlock had been happy and mostly amenable. He had even been sober from his unfortunate addiction. Three whole months of limping back to health. Before Victor left and Sherlock disintegrated once more. 

“He’s been putting more of an effort in general,” Greg said. “He was even a fraction less rude than usual during our last case.”

Mycroft raised a brow in surprise. 

“Was he? John must finally be teaching him some manners.”

“I think so, too. Finally someone is getting through to him. Every time I try telling him that he shouldn’t say nasty things, he insults me.”

“He does the same to me. John has lived up to all my hopes and expectations. He’s been very good for Sherlock. I am so glad that they met. And not only because John saved Sherlock on that beach.”

“Me, too. I like John. He’s a good chap. I always got on well with selkies. As much as Sherlock needed someone, I think John was lonely, too. I can’t imagine what it must be like for him with his family situation.”

Mycroft had suffered a frisson of melancholy and fear when John had admitted why he was so recalcitrant to speak about his clan. Such complete banishment was why Mycroft was hesitant to press the issue of his sexuality with his parents. While he may not enjoy as close a relationship with them as he used to, he still wanted them in his life, even if in a limited capacity. Sherlock didn’t understand that, but there was little wonder about that. He had always been the disappointment. Mycroft had lost count of how many times he had to defend Sherlock’s choices even while feeling as frustrated as they did. 

Greg’s family, on the other hand, was very close. He was an only child but had lots of cousins, so he had never suffered the travails of a lonely childhood. Mycroft envied that sometimes. Moreover, coming out to his parents had hardly been necessary. His mum was bi, so they had accepted him readily. That was the story that Greg had told him years ago. Now he knew more. Werewolf culture, just like selkie culture, wasn’t stuck in the heteronormative trap human ones tended to be in. Greg had never had to hide his desires from his family or fear their disdain. 

“I’m sure,” Mycroft said, “that Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are doing their best to make up for their absence. Sherlock tells me that she has taken to him like a proud mother-in-law.”

Mycroft wondered what that was like.

“You know,” Greg said, voice growing soft, “if you want, I can come over tonight. If you need the company.”

Mycroft tensed, breath stopping in his throat. Tempting offer, but it might be too soon. Pressing the issue before Greg was ready might prove disastrous, even if Greg was doing the offering. But if he denied Greg, would it be out of some misplaced need to control the situation, just as Sherlock had so painfully put it? 

“I don’t want to put you out and make you leave your mother’s house early,” Mycroft said. 

That was a graceful enough refusal, wasn’t it? 

“It’s not a problem. I wasn’t planning on leaving here that late, anyway. Unless… You think it’s too early for you.”

“I was thinking it might be too early for you. But you’re the best judge of that.”

“I don’t think it is. I mean, I’m not ready to, you know, start things again. That’s not why I’m offering. I didn’t mean to give that impression. If I gave that impression.”

“You didn’t. I only wanted to make sure that we are on the same page.”

“Yeah. Of course. Look, let’s just keep it simple. Would you like me to go over there as a friend? Do you need me?”

Always.

“I appreciate your offer, truly, but perhaps the fact that we are both so flustered might be a sign that we’re not ready to be face to face yet. I promise you, I will be alright. Just a few more hours and the day will be over, and it will be another regular Monday.”

Maybe he’d be lucky and a crisis would require his attention before then. Greg sighed on the line. Mycroft braced himself. If Greg insisted, he wouldn’t be able to find it in himself to say no. 

“You might be right,” Greg said. Mycroft deflated in disappointment. “Okay. Look, I’ll call again, soon, okay? And let me know if you need anything. Don’t just do your stoic, stiff upper lip thing. Even for an Englishman, you take it too far.”

Mycroft’s stiff, upper lip curled upstairs in fond amusement.

“I shall endeavor to resist the instinct.”

“You do that. I’ll let you go then. Take care of yourself.”

“Likewise.”

“Sure thing. Bye, then.”

“Good-bye.”

A sigh escaped Mycroft’s throat as he lowered the mobile. He really had wished to say yes. But it was better this way. He couldn’t err again, not with Greg.


	25. Chapter 25

The next morning, Sherlock returned to London with a large bouquet of flowers and a bag of pastries for Mrs. Hudson. He didn’t call them Mothering Sunday presents. For one thing, it was Monday now. But he didn’t normally return from trips with flowers for her, making the timing obvious enough. He was sure that she understood what he meant by them, for her eyes shone with a touched gleam as she thanked and hugged him, looking more flustered than usual. He had almost bought her a cashmere scarf, as well, but that might have been too much. Then again, maybe not. Never mind. Her birthday was only a month away. He’d get it for her then. 

His post-John depression came crashing down again. How lovely to have a routine of misery to look forward to. But now there was another source of bother to distract him. Mycroft. His brother had gone from irritating to perplexing to intriguing in the space of a week. It was maddening. Yet Sherlock could not stop pondering their conversation on Sunday. Why was he fussing so much over Mycroft? He would be fine. He and Greg would get back together, Sherlock would strong-arm him not to fuck it up if he must. Somehow. And Mycroft would realize eventually that their parents were lost causes and that childhood nostalgia was best left in their mind palaces, to be visited never. It wasn’t worth the pain. Despite what Sherlock had told John yesterday. 

How ironic that Mycroft should be the one holding onto sentiment longer than Sherlock. Then again, his continued association with Sherlock, the expensive presents, the recent apologies, and the disturbing expressions of guilt were all sentiment. As was his wistful yearning for what Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had together. Their mother’s maternal affection wasn’t very fulfilling when it was conditional on lies. Mrs. Hudson’s interactions with Mycroft were mostly brief except for when she was reprimanding him for being an overbearing tit. They were civil otherwise. Polite. No, more casual than polite. But far from comfortable. It was Mycroft’s fault for being so damn guarded all the time. Mrs. Hudson latched on to everyone she liked. Her relationship with Sherlock wasn’t purely due to their respective ages. Even among her friends, she was the mum friend. The nurturer. The one who made sure that everyone had taken their meds and eaten properly. She was also the authority on love advice, which had confused Sherlock at first given that she’d had her husband executed (hardly a successful marriage, that one) until he figured out that other activities which may or may not involve love were also included in that category. She had taken John under her wing immediately, like a proud mother-in-law. Greg also seemed to be part of her brood now. He had been popping by when Sherlock wasn’t here as much as when he was. So if Mycroft was so desperate for motherly love (which most certainly would not be coming from their own mother), he had no excuse not to try with Mrs. Hudson is she was willing. 

Some reconnaissance was in order. Sherlock hadn’t been to Mycroft’s house in nearly five years. A visit was long overdue. 

_Are you home?_ Sherlock texted Mycroft at 7pm Monday night.

 _I’m not in London_ , Mycroft texted back a short while later. _Why?_

_Thought I’d pop by._

_I’ll repeat my question. Why?_

_Why not? You’re at my flat all the time._

_But you’re never at my house. You haven’t been in years. So what has prompted this sudden urge for a familial visit? ___

__Another text came straight after._ _

___If this is about my emotional state from yesterday, I am perfectly well. There’s no need to worry over me._ _ _

__Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the text. He had believed just that for years, and yet now he was kicking himself for it. Damn brotherly instincts. He had been perfectly fine without them._ _

___I’m not worried_ , Sherlock replied. _Do you want me to visit you or not?__ _

__Mycroft’s reply came swiftly._ _

___I should be home on Wednesday evening. I’ll inform you if I am otherwise engaged._ _ _

__Wednesday was so far away, but it would have to do._ _

__``````````````````````_ _

__The wait was interminable. Minutes dragged by. No John. Mrs. Hudson kept going out on dates and with friends. Greg was busy with work and divorce proceedings. Sherlock had no cases. Research had ceased to be interesting. He played his violin late into the night, composing in bits and pieces, but it wasn’t anywhere near enough to quiet his mind. He pulled out a cigarette from its box. Put it back. Pulled it out again. Put it back yet again, imagining John’s and Mrs. Hudson’s disappointed faces if they smelled nicotine smoke in the flat. Why was being alone in his own home harder than it had been before he met John?_ _

__When Wednesday finally deigned to come around, he texted Mycroft every half hour since 5 pm, asking when he was going home. At 7:50, Mycroft finally replied that he was on his way. Sherlock grabbed his coat and ran downstairs to get into Mrs. Hudson’s car, which had been parked outside waiting just for this moment. A cab would be troublesome with Mycroft’s extensive security. He tapped his fingers on the wheel the entire way there. Mycroft had purchased a large manor style house on the outskirts of London right after Sherlock had entered rehab for the final time seven years ago. Sherlock hadn’t commented on it, but he was glad of it._ _

__His hand clenched around his phone at the memory. Neither of them wanted to be back in the house where Sherlock had overdosed. Almost dying made one quite leery of a place. The house he had now was a bit palatial, more fitting with Mycroft’s ego and need to wall himself off in a metaphorical castle like the monarch he purported to be in all but name. Mycroft had provided him with the security codes for the gate and the front door. Even Sherlock would have a hard time breaking in with the amount of security that Mycroft encased his house with. There were so many cameras that Sherlock couldn’t take one step anywhere in the massive grounds without it being recorded and broadcast straight to an app on Mycroft’s mobile._ _

__But the inside was a different matter. To preserve Mycroft’s own privacy, the moment that Sherlock stepped through the door, he was free to go where he pleased without any oversight beyond what Mycroft could deduce about his movements when he arrived. Which was exactly what Sherlock had yearned for. So why was he stuck by the front door, unmoving? Mycroft wouldn’t arrive for at least fifteen more minutes. Why wasn’t Sherlock invading Mycroft’s privacy the same way that Mycroft had invaded his so many times? Besides, he had been in this house before, walked these corridors, snooped around the study. It was hardly anything new. Yet new ground had swollen beneath his feet between him and Mycroft in the last few days. The old rules of spitefulness and hostility felt weak and unbalanced. Mrs. Hudson would say that the only fair thing to do if he wanted Mycroft to trust him was to trust him back and not dig through all his personal belongings in search of whatever secrets Sherlock might uncover. Never mind that fair play demanded that Sherlock do exactly that. It would even begin to make up for seven years of being spied upon by his own brother._ _

__Fine. He’d stick to the common areas. And if he stumbled into an unfamiliar room due to faulty memory of the layout of the house, it wasn’t his fault. The downstairs revealed nothing interesting. Mycroft’s kitchen was a sad void of emptiness and takeaway menus. His sitting room was pristine. Same went for the dining room. A cleaning service took care of the house, so there were few clues to be ascertained from dust patterns. Paintings decorated the walls, some abstract, but mostly landscapes. The décor was very traditional except for the state of the art technology peppering the house throughout. John would salivate over the huge telly in the sitting room and the expensive sound system. Not to mention the screening room, set up to play anything from film reels to streaming videos. Stepping into the projection area didn’t constitute a breach of privacy, did it? It was hardly equivalent of going into Mycroft’s bedroom. And Sherlock already knew that Mycroft had a collection of family videos from their childhood, which were neatly lined up in their storage bins. Sherlock took a closer look. The last one put back in was labeled “Nice 1993”. Only in the last few days, too. On Mothering Sunday, most likely. How like Mycroft to reminisce about the past on an emotional day. And he claimed not to be governed by sentiment. Hypocrite._ _

__Sherlock moved upstairs. Spare bedrooms, Mycroft’s own bedroom, and his study. Oh, look, his study door was open. Any stray passerby could pop in and take a peak. It wasn’t like Mycroft hadn’t known that Sherlock was coming, so if he had forgotten to shut his door, that was his own fault._ _

__Unless he wanted Sherlock to go in. Had he set up the room to appeal to Sherlock’s softer feelings? This could be a trick._ _

__Oh fuck it. What could Mycroft have in this room to manipulate him, anyway?_ _

__Pictures of Sherlock and Greg, that was what. There was Sherlock’s grad school graduation photo hanging within easy view of the desk, perfectly primed to tug at his heartstrings. But nothing in this room had been placed strategically for Sherlock. It had been set this way for a long time. A picture of Sherlock and Mycroft as children hung on another wall. It had been taken at their home for a Christmas card. The two of them, Sherlock no more than five years old, stood in front of the Christmas tree wearing hideous jumpers. Mycroft had already perfected the art of the artificial smile while Sherlock frowned at the camera in disinterest. No one had ever gotten him to smile for a photograph when he didn’t want to, and he was damn proud of that. Then there was a photo of Greg and Mycroft at a street market. Both were smiling in this one, bright, genuine grins borne only by those who truly enjoyed each other’s company. Sherlock stared at the photo in surprise. Mycroft looked relaxed and carefree. He leaned toward Greg, arms wrapped around each other’s backs. Sherlock hadn’t thought it was possible for his brother to look like this. Greg’s cheerful expression was instantly recognizable, but Mycroft looked like an entirely different person. The picture was a few years old from their appearances. This must have been from before Greg met Susan. Mycroft wouldn’t look so happy if Greg was already dating someone else._ _

__The front door opened. Sherlock jolted out of the study and hurried to the stairs, only making it a few steps down before Mycroft saw him._ _

__“Apologies for interrupting your reconnaissance,” Mycroft said, as nonchalantly as if he were commenting on the weather. “I delayed as much as possible.”_ _

__Sherlock frowned, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs._ _

__“You wanted me to snoop around?”_ _

__“Not wanted, no. But why else would you insist on coming here instead of demanding that I go to you?”_ _

__That had been a bit transparent, hadn’t it?_ _

__“Why did you give me the code for the front door, then?”_ _

__Mycroft shrugged._ _

__“A show of trust, I suppose. That is what we have been aiming for the last few weeks, isn’t it? I’m not about to test the fragile truce between us. I left nothing you could cause any trouble with in my office. I take it you went in there. I believe I left the door open in the morning. I considered locking it, but you probably would have made short work of that.”_ _

__Mycroft crossed past him to take the briefcase he carried to said office._ _

__“I wasn’t going to break in anywhere,” Sherlock said, following him._ _

__“Weren’t you?”_ _

__Skepticism dripped off Mycroft’s voice._ _

__“No.” Sherlock thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’d like to keep up this truce, too. God, this feels fucking weird. I can’t believe I’m getting along with you. Is the planet off kilter? It must be. Maybe the apocalypse is next. Selkies and werewolves are real, so why the hell not?”_ _

__Mycroft laughed softly as they reached the top of the stairs._ _

__“I feel the same. It is not an occurrence I ever anticipated, but I am glad of it. I have kept true to my word and ceased all surveillance on you, so there’s no need for you to worry about that.”_ _

__“You better have. If not, I’m telling Greg.”_ _

__Mycroft raised an “are you serious” brow as they entered his study._ _

__“Threats during our truce? Not very sporting of you.”_ _

__“But effective.”_ _

__Mycroft pursed his lips._ _

__“Quite.”_ _

__He placed his briefcase on the desk. Sherlock’s eye was drawn to the photograph of both of them in front of the Christmas tree._ _

__“You wanted me to see these to tug at my heartstrings, didn’t you?”_ _

__Mycroft looked up from the sheaf of papers he was locking in his desk, following Sherlock’s gaze to the picture. His eyes went soft with emotion, yet not with guile. He looked tired more than anything._ _

__“The thought hadn’t occurred to me,” Mycroft said. “Yet I wouldn’t object to that outcome. I’ve had these pictures up for years. They weren’t strategically placed for your benefit.”_ _

__“I don’t remember having this picture taken. It must have been from before I became utterly annoying to you.”_ _

__Mycroft tensed, his shoulders and mouth tightening into a wary line._ _

__“We used to be close once, you know.”_ _

__“So mummy says. I barely remember it. Pieces of memory here and there. Dreamlike.”_ _

__“What do you remember?”_ _

__Sherlock shrugged._ _

__“You teaching me the violin. Going to the beach. Maybe two beaches. I’m not sure. Playing at the house.” Sherlock hunched his shoulders, looking down, discomfort itching up his spine. “Creeping into your bed after having a nightmare. I’ve never been sure which ones are real or not.”_ _

__“They’re all real. You woke me up past two in the morning, crying about a monster chasing you in your dream. I tucked you in next to me under the blankets and held you until you fell asleep. You were only four. I’m amazed that you remember any of it at all.”_ _

__A wistful smile took over Mycroft’s face. Sherlock turned away. Fuck, this was awkward. Why did he have to bring it up? He should have just gone straight to the invitation and have done with it._ _

__“The parts I do remember are far less touching,” Sherlock said._ _

__Goddamnit, did he actually sound hurt? Why must he always be this damn transparent? Why did Mycroft always bring it out of him?_ _

__“Sherlock—”_ _

__“At what point did you decide that I wasn’t smart enough for your expectations? When mummy and daddy did? Or was it even earlier?”_ _

__Was that guilt pinching Mycroft’s face? Wonders never cease. What change had come over his brother that he was suddenly so willing to acknowledge his wrongs and beg for forgiveness?_ _

__“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Mycroft said, hands in his pockets, back straight as he desperately tried to hold onto his dignified façade, but his downturned face negated all of that. “I regret how I treated you. My adolescence wasn’t a high point in my life. I was a bit… arrogant.”_ _

__“You still are. Always lording it over me how much more observant you are. My intellect is nothing compared to yours, is it? Don’t be clever, Sherlock. I’m the smart one.”_ _

__Sherlock’s hands fisted in his pockets as he singsonged a mockery of Mycroft’s voice. He was a tense as a bowstring about to snap. Why was he dredging all this up? He hadn’t meant to. This visit was supposed to be about Mycroft, not him. So much for a truce. But he couldn’t keep this in anymore. He couldn’t._ _

__“Sherlock, I’m sorry.”_ _

__“I’m not stupid, Mycroft.”_ _

__When had Sherlock begun to hug himself?_ _

__“I know you’re not. It’s teasing. Banter. How often do you insult me?”_ _

__“I didn’t use to, did I? Or am I remembering wrong? Go on. Tell me. You’re the elder one. Your recollection of my own childhood is so much better than mine. I hardly think that I would have sought comfort from a nightmare from the person who called me stupid for not deducing things as fast as the great Mycroft Holmes.”_ _

__Mycroft didn’t dare meet his eyes. Coward._ _

__“I can’t turn back time, Sherlock. All I can do is apologize and promise to do better.”_ _

__“You can tell me why. Why I was such a disappointment to you. But I already know. You were lonely. Seven years alone and you finally got a sibling. Maybe he’d be as smart as you. You could be clever together in this world of goldfish. But despite being so much quicker than all the other children we came into contact with, I didn’t quite make the cut. I wasn’t as smart as you. Your hopes in me were dashed. You were the only person who could keep up with me, who kept me from feeling lonely. I didn’t mind that you were so much older than me. But I wasn’t good enough for you.”_ _

__“I really am sorry. I never meant to make you feel inferior.”_ _

__“Yes, you did.”_ _

__Mycroft shut his eyes with a groan and rubbed his face. He looked guilty, at least. That was something. Mummy would tell Sherlock to let it go. Had been telling him for years, but it wasn’t that damn simple._ _

__“Alright,” Mycroft said, dredging up a drained sigh. “I may have, perhaps—”_ _

__“Oh, don’t give me that prevarication. You were being a hurtful arse on purpose.”_ _

__“Alright, fine. I was purposely malicious. I was lonely and frustrated. It wasn’t easy for me being the only one who could see things that others couldn’t. I admit that I was hoping you were at my level of ability, but I was also upset by other factors in my life, and I took it out on you. I am aware that that’s no excuse, and I deeply regret it, but I didn’t realize that it continued to hurt you until now. I haven’t meant my taunts as anything more than fraternal teasing since I became an adult. Now that I know how it sounds to you, I will stop. I am truly sorry.”_ _

__Mycroft was gazing at him again, his eyes shining with sincerity, pleading for Sherlock to forgive him. Sherlock sucked in a startled breath, hating how he was the one to look away now, but he couldn’t stand to have Mycroft looking at him like that. He had been the one to demand it, yet now his hands were flapping at his sides, palms sweaty. He desperately fished around for anything in the room to distract himself with, but all around him were those damn pictures. He and Mycroft. Mycroft and Greg. Sherlock at his graduation. Mycroft had been proud, hadn’t he? He had said so. So goddamn proud that Sherlock had followed the rules and gotten himself a decent, respectable degree, never mind that Mycroft himself already had a Ph.D. at that age for being such a sodding genius and not rotting his brain with cocaine and dilly-dallying with side projects that only distracted him from his future career._ _

__Mycroft was staring at him, waiting for a response, so patiently. Always the patient one, wasn’t he? Not like Sherlock. But Mycroft wasn’t being terribly patient at all, was he? He was desperate for Sherlock to absolve him of his sins. Sherlock had already forgiven him last week, but he had forgotten this, had left it out, not wishing to think about it._ _

__“Sherlock.”_ _

__“Yes, I forgive you, okay? I don’t want to drag this out any longer. I just wanted to hear it confirmed. Needed to get it out there. We can move on now, alright?”_ _

__Sherlock spun around and rushed toward the door. He couldn’t stand to be in this room anymore, his past self staring at him, five years old, so innocent of the horrors that would come. Mycroft followed him, his first major motion since Sherlock had begun guilting him, but he couldn’t keep quiet, could he?_ _

__“Can you hold on a moment?” Mycroft said, still pleading._ _

__“I’m going downstairs. I should have stayed there. You don’t have to thank me. You’re absolved. Let’s move on.”_ _

__Sherlock hurried down the stairs, Mycroft at his heels._ _

__“Of course I have to thank you. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you hadn’t accepted my apology. Sherlock, slow down.”_ _

__Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock veered toward the sitting room._ _

__“Sherlock, I need to know something. Just the one thing, then we’ll leave this subject forever if you wish.”_ _

__Sherlock jerked to a stop and faced Mycroft, who almost ran into him, eyes widening in surprise. He had that same haunted look he always bore whenever Sherlock put himself in mortal danger. Whatever he had to ask, Sherlock wouldn’t want to know. Nothing good ever preceded or followed that expression._ _

__“Promise me,” Sherlock said. “You’ll never bring it up again.”_ _

__Mycroft nodded, full of purposeful solemnity. Christ, what the hell did he want to ask?_ _

__“I promise.”_ _

__Sherlock braced himself, squaring his shoulders and his jaw._ _

__“What do you need to know?”_ _

__Mycroft hesitated, lips parting, as if he was stumbling over the right words in his mind._ _

__“My behavior towards you when we were children… Did it contribute to your addiction?”_ _

__Sherlock’s mouth went dry. He stumbled back a step, choking on a gasp. Did Mycroft want to wallow in crushing guilt? Was that his new thing? He couldn’t want the answer to this. Sherlock certainly didn’t want to give it. As much as he had just passed Mycroft through the wringer, he couldn’t burden him with this, not with the shame of having contributed to the habit that almost killed his brother._ _

__Sherlock shook his head._ _

__“You can’t want the answer to that.”_ _

__Mycroft’s face pinched. He looked away, his right hand grasping at his side for an umbrella that wasn’t there._ _

__“That would be a yes, then.”_ _

__Sherlock dropped his face in his hands._ _

__“Fuck, Mycroft. I’m alive. You found me in time. You put me in rehab. Have been watching over me ever since. You’ve fucked up a lot of it, but we already covered that, so let’s not go back there. It’s in the past. Leave it there.”_ _

__“Your outburst just now proves that it is not.”_ _

__“I didn’t mean to—“’ Sherlock yanked at his hair. “Fuck. I literally just forgave you and yet you insist on wallowing in this. Self-pity isn’t a good look on you.”_ _

__“You brought it up, yet now you protest because I feel bad about it? Wasn’t that what you wanted when you came here?”_ _

__“No. I wanted to invite you to dinner.”_ _

__Mycroft gaped at him, startled._ _

__“What?”_ _

__Sherlock groaned deep in his throat, throwing his head back._ _

__“Mrs. Hudson wants to invite you to dinner. Fine, yes, I wanted to snoop around before I asked you. Then I saw your sentimentality over our childhood. I looked in your screening room. I saw the pictures in your study and this just came up, but I didn’t plan any of this. I’m done. I’m tired. I enjoyed seeing you grovel last week, but now it feels weird.”_ _

__Sherlock waved his hands in the air to emphasize the awkwardness of the miasma in the air between them as he paced in tight circles._ _

__“You were hardly the only thing making me miserable as a child,” he continued, “so stop putting the weight of the world on your shoulders. Boredom, our parents, the berks at school and uni were just if not more responsible, so stop. Just stop. I do not want you feeling guilty over this. Do you understand me?”_ _

__Sherlock halted in his tracks and stepped close to Mycroft, who looked about to protest _don’tdoit_ , but he lowered his head and nodded._ _

__“I understand,” he said._ _

__Sherlock sucked in a breath._ _

__“Good. God, I need a smoke.”_ _

__He almost sprinted to the front door and opened the wardrobe beside it to dig in his coat pocket for his emergency stash. He’d known that he would need this before the night was over._ _

__“Don’t even think about telling John,” he said, yanking out a cigarette from the box and his lighter._ _

__He placed the cigarette in his mouth. The lighter switch stuttered in his shaking fingers. Fuck!_ _

__“Let me,” Mycroft said, extending his hand._ _

__Sherlock peered at him. Mycroft watched him with quiet resignation. He wasn’t going to insist on this wretched subject. Sherlock had defeated him. The victory felt so hollow. Sherlock handed him the lighter. In a moment, a flame flickered to life by Mycroft’s thumb and he held it to the tip of Sherlock’s cigarette. Sherlock sucked the blessed smoke, huffing out a large gust. The trembling in his skin began to even out as the nicotine hit his system. Blessed nicotine._ _

__“May I have one?” Mycroft asked._ _

__“Sure.”_ _

__Sherlock grabbed another cigarette and gave it to him. Mycroft lit it and took a puff, lingering over it with as much desperate need as Sherlock._ _

__“Let’s go to the sitting room,” Mycroft said. “We’ll need an ashtray soon.”_ _

__Sure, why not? As soon as they reached the sitting room, Sherlock took over the plushest armchair, kicking off his shoes before Mycroft complained about him putting them on his expensive upholstery. He wrapped his left arm around his legs while continuing to puff away with his right hand. Mycroft sat next to him on the sofa after taking out an ashtray from a drawer and placing it between them on the coffee table._ _

__“Whose idea was it to invite me to dinner?” Mycroft asked, affecting an air of learned nonchalance. He failed utterly at it._ _

__Sherlock squirmed in his seat. Sod it all. What was the point in pretending that he didn’t care now? That ship had flown and crashed into the Atlantic Ocean._ _

__“Mine. If you’re so desperate for maternal affection, there’s no need for you to beg for scraps from mummy. If you hadn’t insisted on being your insufferably aloof self all these years, you would have known that.”_ _

__“I hardly think that you would have tolerated my presence enough for that.”_ _

__“Irrelevant. You didn’t make the effort. You’re always going on to me about that, so take your own advice for once. Mrs. Hudson is under the impression that this is only about me wanting to make peace with you, but if you make some of that aforementioned effort, things should develop to a satisfying conclusion for all parties.”_ _

__“Are you sure that Mrs. Hudson would be so willing to take me on in any capacity beyond civility? She took a lot of pleasure in upbraiding me not too long ago.”_ _

__Sherlock smirked. Good times._ _

__“Yes, she did. You were being a prat. But she invited you to tea in her kitchen while doing so, so she wasn’t completely hostile to you. You frustrate her enormously on my behalf, but she doesn’t dislike you. She’s actually over the moon that we’re…” Sherlock wagged his hand. “You know.”_ _

__“Talking like civilized people?”_ _

__Sherlock scowled at him._ _

__“Don’t pretend like that was all my fault.”_ _

__The amusement in Mycroft’s face withered. He lowered his head in acknowledgment._ _

__“I cannot, today of all days. You do know that one person isn’t a replacement for another.”_ _

__“Of course I know that. But it’s better than you wallowing away in the screening room over a past that will never come back. Give it a shot, will you?”_ _

__“Alright, I will. For when is the dinner invitation?”_ _

__“Whenever you have time. She’s out of town visiting her sister this weekend, so not then.”_ _

__“I’ll check my calendar and get back to you. I should thank you for this. It’s more than I expected from you at this juncture.”_ _

__Sherlock tapped the dripping ash furiously onto the ashtray before returning to a ball on the armchair and taking another huff._ _

__“It’s your fault for being so maudlin on the phone on Sunday.”_ _

__Mycroft narrowed his eyes._ _

__“I was hardly maudlin.”_ _

__“For you, that’s maudlin. Speaking of you learning to express emotions, how are things with Greg? Any progress?”_ _

__Mycroft tilted his head at him pensively._ _

__“Are you going to continue pestering me like this until we’re married?”_ _

__Sherlock peered sharply at him._ _

__“Is that in the cards?”_ _

__Mycroft sighed and sank further against the cushions, legs crossed, taking a deep puff of his cigarette._ _

__“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I don’t see the point in giving it much thought unless Greg and I are in a relationship that’s conducive towards marriage. And like I keep telling you time and time again—”_ _

__Sherlock threw his head back with a groan._ _

__“Greg needs more time. Yes, you’ve said it.”_ _

__“Since it’s only fair play, how is your relationship with John going?”_ _

__Sherlock extinguished the stub of his cigarette in the ashtray and sat back, tapping his fingers on the armrests._ _

__“Well. Very well. Except that most of the time we’re too far away from each other and it’s driving me mad.”_ _

__“One day, one of you is going to have to move. I doubt that your penchant for frenetic activity will survive residence in Dover.”_ _

__Sherlock rubbed his eyes._ _

__“God, no. Besides, Mrs. Hudson would kill me. But John can’t live so far from the ocean.”_ _

__“He studied in Cambridge. That’s nowhere near the ocean.”_ _

__“Yeah, and he hated it.”_ _

__“There is a simple solution. He keeps the house in Dover and you both travel there on the weekends.”_ _

__Sherlock wiggled his toes. That might work. But he didn’t want to be the one to tell John to live most of his days without so much as the sight of his beloved ocean._ _

__“Maybe,” Sherlock said._ _

__“You don’t want to suggest that he move away from the sea, do you?”_ _

__Sherlock tucked his chin on his knees._ _

__“No.”_ _

__“Well, I’m sure that John will mention the difficulty at some point.”_ _

__Silence descended, gloomy and uncomfortable as it always was between them. Usually, Sherlock would be getting up by now to run away from it. But moving was too hard. He was so tired. And this chair was so comfortable._ _

__“I have to go order some food,” Mycroft said, putting out his cigarette. “I’m afraid I haven’t eaten since early afternoon. Would it be too presumptuous of me to invite you to stay for dinner, or should we wait until I can visit Baker Street? I’m not sure that you should be driving in this emotional state, in any case.”_ _

__There Mycroft went again telling him what to do. But God did he not feel like driving right now._ _

__“Order me a car, then.”_ _

__Mycroft’s face fell. Not in any way that someone who didn’t know him well would be able to tell. It was all in his eyes, a tiny pinching at the right corner of his lips, the smallest drooping of his shoulders. He took out his mobile, unlocking the screen. Sherlock jumped off the chair._ _

__“Stop that,” he said, going to the kitchen. “I’ll grab us some takeout menus.”_ _

__He caught Mycroft’s surprised expression from the corner of his eye but shook it off. He was hungry. This was the fastest way to get food. And if he was going to eat dinner with him in front of Mrs. Hudson, he should get some practice. It wouldn’t just be his ears smarting from a tongue lashing if they had a row in front of her._ _


	26. Chapter 26

Mycroft made it only as far as the next evening before calling Greg about Sherlock’s visit. It had left him in a rather pitiable state of emotional exhaustion and tentative relief over the status of their fraternal relationship. Mycroft found himself unable to focus as keenly on his work as he would like. Even his assistant noticed, which was a truly deplorable state for him to be in. Yet, unlike his previous Sherlock-induced distracted states, he wasn’t mired in anxiety over his brother. On the contrary. He was happy. Ecstatic. But also stuck in deep shame that he couldn’t drag himself out of no matter how many times he remembered Sherlock’s order that he cease feeling culpable for having any part in his drug addiction. Easier said than done when that filthy habit had almost killed him. Yet Sherlock, who was always so eager to dig in the thorns of Mycroft’s mistakes, had been alarmed at the prospect of Mycroft feeling guilty for this misdeed. That had to count for something.

When he returned home from work Mycroft reached in his pocket for his mobile without even a thought and dialed Greg’s number. His stomach pinched with hunger pangs, but he couldn’t eat until he’d cleared his mind.

“Hey,” Greg answered. 

Mycroft released a low breath at the sound of his voice. Such a soothing balm to his perturbed nerves. 

“Good evening,” Mycroft said. “I’m not interrupting you at work, am I?”

“No, I’m already home. What’s up? You sound worried.”

Mycroft sighed, sagging back in his armchair more than usual. 

“Not exactly. I’m happy, actually. But there is something bothering me, despite the fact that I’ve been ordered not to think about it.”

Mycroft summarized Sherlock’s visit, ending with the stilted, yet welcome dinner that they’d eaten in Mycroft’s rarely used dinning room. 

“That’s amazing,” Greg said, the joy and energy in his voice drawing a smile from Mycroft. “I’m so happy for you. I mean, about the good stuff. You’re a good brother, Mycroft. I’m so glad that you and Sherlock are finally working things out. And you really shouldn’t feel guilty for stupid crap you said as a teenager. How could you possibly have known what was going to happen? Sherlock is the one who decided to take drugs. You didn’t make him do it.”

Mycroft stroked a weary hand across his face.

“I am aware. I have been trying to put it out of my mind, but it’s not so simple.”

“I know it’s not. I understand. It is going to take time. But you’ve got to try, you know? That’s all any of us can do.”

Mycroft gazed across the room, soothing himself with the verdant landscape of the painting he had placed there. 

“I will try. I will do my best to follow your example.”

Greg snorted out a laugh that sounded a bit too close to hysteria for comfort.

“I don’t think I am a good example to follow, but thanks, I guess? I’m just trying to put one foot in front of the other. I’m not sure how good of a job I’m doing at it, though.”

Mycroft’s heart seized at the insecure sadness in Greg’s voice. 

“Come over,” Mycroft said, unable to hold back the urge anymore. “If you want to, that is.”

“I do. Yeah, I very much do. I’ll be there in a bit.”

Greg must have broken a few speeding laws to arrive so quickly, but Mycroft wasn’t about to fault him for it. He met him at the front door, alerted of his arrival by an app on his phone. The sight of Greg walking through the door traced an instant smile on Mycroft’s face. 

“Hey,” Greg said, pulling him into a hug. “Come here.”

Mycroft leaned into him gratefully, eyes slipping shut, nose sinking into Greg’s soft hair, inhaling the familiar scent of his shampoo. Greg rubbed his back, squeezing with his fingertips, only just stopping himself from delivering one of the massages they used to indulge in of old. Mycroft’s smile grew, remaining even after Greg pulled back.

“I needed that,” Greg said, looking no less tired than Mycroft himself. “You did, too.”

“Yes. It was most welcome. I have missed seeing you.”

Greg smiled. Fond. Nostalgic. Yet still too sorrowful for where they needed to be to take the next step. 

“Me, too,” he said. He pet Mycroft’s arm, squeezing for a longed-for second. “Come on. I bet you haven’t eaten since you got home, have you?”

They began making their way to the kitchen.

“I haven’t. But I’m afraid that I don’t have enough ingredients for you to prepare something worth your time.”

Greg shook his head, huffing a laugh that sounded an awful lot like an “oh, you”.

“Typical. Fine, we’ll get takeaway. But I will be feeding you properly next time I’m here.”

Mycroft’s smile widened.


	27. Chapter 27

The instant that Sherlock heard John open the front door of the building, he rushed from his armchair to the staircase, breathing a sigh of relief upon seeing John’s weary, yet smiling face. There was no more soothing sight on Earth, not even a deliciously puzzling murder. 

“Hi,” John called, carrying his suitcase up the stairs. “It’s so nice to finally be here. I thought today would never end. Sprains, colds, stomach aches. I got the lot. All of my three hypochondriacs showed up, too.”

“Sounds awful.” Sherlock reached out to him. “Let me make it better.”

John reached the top of the stairs and Sherlock hugged him, eyes closing as he leaned down to nuzzle his face. John held onto him with as much needy eagerness, releasing a satisfied breath as he sank into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock kissed his cheek, then his jaw, working up his face to his hairline, humming in contentment at John’s happy giggle. 

“God, I’ve missed this,” John murmured.

“Likewise.” 

What horrid torture to have to separate himself from John for even a moment after so much waiting, but they would be much better off continuing this elsewhere. Pulling back, he grabbed John’s hand and tugged him inside.

“Come on. Bed.”

John followed without protest. Sherlock only let go of his hand when they reached his bedroom to yank off his dressing gown and t-shirt before jumping into bed and staring up at John, who was being much too slow with his own garments.

“Hang on,” John said, grinning at Sherlock’s eagerness as he pulled off his jacket. “I’ll just be a second. I’m wearing a bit more than you.”

“So unnecessary. It’s torture having to wait this long.”

“It’s chilly out there. You can wait an extra few seconds.”

Sherlock sprawled out on the bed with a long-suffering sigh. John rolled his eyes but kept smiling. As soon as he climbed into bed, Sherlock snuggled up to his chest and began covering him in little kisses. So soft and warm and comfortable. How had he ever lived without this strong body wrapped around his? For John’s arms rose automatically to encircle him, rubbing down Sherlock’s back, delicious fingertips stroking away the tension coiled in his muscles. Sherlock rubbed John’s chest with his cheeks, grasping his waist, smiling as he lingered over John’s heart and heard it beat in his ear, one of the most precious heartbeats in the world. If only John could be here all the time so that he could always have a chance to listen to it.

“You’re still upset over last night, aren’t you?” John asked, his tone as soft as the hands brushing Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock hugged him more tightly, frowning at the memory of the completely unwelcome emotional turmoil that had ensued courtesy of the surprisingly sentimental décor in Mycroft’s house. He had returned home too late last night to call John. A few replies to his texts here and there hadn’t been anywhere near good enough for comfort. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson had a bit more time on her hands, but even she had only indulged him for a half hour before apologetically saying that she had to cut the call short, as she and Marge were going out for lunch. Why was dealing with Mycroft always so difficult? He used to be wonderfully predictable. A little guilting, and money and favors came out, not heart-wrenched apologies and deep-seated shame that made Sherlock feel bad in turn.

“Mycroft is coming to dinner on Wednesday,” Sherlock mumbled on John’s belly. 

John stroked his thumb along Sherlock’s nape.

“You’re worried about it, aren’t you?”

“Visiting his house was weird and awkward. Mycroft has always been simple. Now he’s difficult and complicated. I don’t know what the rules are with him anymore. Am I not allowed to insult him now? That’s too much to ask. I can’t do it.”

“All the siblings I know tease each other. Me and Harry were always at each others’ throats. We drove our parents round the bend.” John tensed under Sherlock. “But maybe we’re not the best example.”

Sherlock kissed above his belly button and grabbed one of John’s hands to kiss it, too, sinking his face into his palm. John smiled past his sorrow. No, the siblings that hadn’t spoken for years weren’t the best example. The most that Sherlock had ever gone without communicating with Mycroft was five months, and despite it being his choice, he had still felt unsettled about it. Mycroft was like a rash that wouldn’t go away. Irritating, yet dependable. 

“”You’ll be fine,” John said, trying to cheer up for Sherlock’s sake. “Just play it by ear.”

“Every time I play something social by ear people tell me I’m doing it wrong.”

“Well, you’re not talking to random strangers. It’s your brother. You know what he likes and doesn’t like. And teasing is still on the table, I’m sure. He likes to give as much as he gets. If you both cut it out full stop, you’ll be bored to tears. I’m really not qualified to give advice here, but just don’t say or do anything malicious and… Sorry, I can’t think of anything other than play it by ear. And he might not know what the hell to do, either. What did you talk about during dinner?”

Sherlock dropped his head back on John’s chest. 

“We didn’t say much at first. Then he asked what kind of wine Mrs. Hudson likes. I told him that if he didn’t bring the most expensive rosé, I’d kick him out. Then he started going on about wines, knowing full well that I don’t know a damn thing about it. He shut up after I glared at him for long enough. To make him suffer, I started talking about the Marvel movies. His look of horror that I even know anything about them made up for trying to show me up earlier.”

Sherlock grinned into John’s chest. John, ecstatic upon hearing that Sherlock had enjoyed Iron Man, was eagerly showing him the rest of the Marvel movies, so Sherlock had a handy catalog to torture Mycroft with. Bombastic action scenes and mainstream humor made his eyes bleed.

“See,” John said, “you never stopped teasing each other.”

“I guess not.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and pushed Mycroft out of his mind. He wanted to enjoy John without worrying about his brother. He tucked himself into a ball, face pressed to John’s chest, toes touching John’s shins, one arm folded on his belly with the other wrapped around his waist. John held him silently, curling his body around him. 

They lied like this until John needed to get up to eat something before bed. Sherlock wanted to stay up longer, but John had been awake since 6 am, so he needed an early night. Sherlock chickened out of asking to sleep together again before John shifted into his seal form and stretched out on the sofa, too lazy to go upstairs. 

The next morning, Sherlock crept out of his room and padded softly into the sitting room. John lied on his back, one flipper on his chest while the other hung off the side, snoring softly through his nose. The sight looked so human that Sherlock grinned while he slipped onto the floor and crossed his legs to watch John sleep. The magic of John’s nature hadn’t ceased to amaze him in the past weeks. His curiosity about how such things could be possible continued to burn within him, but he had grudgingly accepted that he might never know, even if he were allowed to examine non-human DNA. He had even come to accept the usage of the word “magic” after reminding John of the old quote, “Magic is just science we don’t understand yet.” Sherlock had merely been working with an incomplete method of scientific study, an erroneous construction of the makeup of the world. 

Maybe one of Mrs. Hudson’s non-human friends would be more amenable to having their blood examined. Or they may decide to kill him for the affront. That was possible, wasn’t it? Bugger.

John’s tail flickered. He moved his head from side to side, blinking his eyes open before focusing on Sherlock. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, not feeling sorry at all. “I couldn’t resist. You’re an enthralling sight while you sleep.”

John bobbed his head up and down in a way that Sherlock had learned meant bashful embarrassment and made a happy utterance. He slid off the sofa onto the floor and hopped to Sherlock, who lowered his legs to receive him. John pushed him to the ground, pressing him down with his flippers to lick his face. Sherlock laughed. It was like being licked by a dog. Or Greg. God, his life was weird. Sherlock grabbed John, half hugging, half pretending to hold him back, luxuriating in the feel of his warm fur even as John’s whiskers tickled his face and neck. 

“Let’s take this to the bed,” Sherlock said after a minute. “It’s more comfortable.”

John lopped in front of him to the bedroom and hopped atop the bed, barking softly at Sherlock to hurry in an amusing reversal of yesterday. Sherlock stretched out beside him, draping a leg over John, who continued nuzzling his neck and chest. This playful cuddling continued until one of them had to go to the loo. Then they might as well eat breakfast. 

John had got over his silly recalcitrance over consuming food prepared in Sherlock’s kitchen as long as he took part in the cooking. As if Sherlock was willing to risk poisoning him. They made a full English, tucked into the sofa to read for a bit, then went out for a morning walk. As athletic as John’s species was, he couldn’t endure a day without getting thorough exercise in the morning. They ambled around Regent’s Park, then took a cab to the National Gallery. They went their own way for a bit, which resulted in John getting completely lost and having to be rescued from the Romanticists collection by Sherlock. How did people manage to go anywhere without developing intricate mental maps in their heads? All that Sherlock had needed was to look at the map once and he was set, yet he had found John frowning at the same in helpless confusion. He didn’t let John live it down until John threatened to steal all his chips during lunch. Afterward, they returned home and Sherlock jumped in the shower.

It occurred right after he emerged from said shower, a towel clad around his waist while he dried his hair with another, squeezing out the water as best he could without tangling the curls. John walked into the room and stared, mouth falling open as he looked down Sherlock’s body, quickly, as if on instinct. His eyes sparkled in a way that made Sherlock gasp and recoil. Sherlock had always welcomed John’s admiration and appreciation of his looks, but it had always been chaste, precious and exhilarating. But there was no mistaking the naked and yearning lust in John’s eyes, especially as he focused below Sherlock’s waist. Only for half a second, but it was enough.

Sherlock stepped back, clasping his towel to his chest, fleeing John’s gaze. John startled at the motion, eyes widening with awareness and guilt at his own actions.

“Oh god,” he said, horrified. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to look at you like that.”

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. Sherlock couldn’t even fake being fine, not with the way his voice trembled and came out too breathless and high-pitched. But John looked ashamed of himself. He had never been anything but respectful. He shouldn’t feel shame. It had been an accident. A reflex. It hadn’t been on purpose. Not his John. Not with the guilt searing his eyes. Yet Sherlock still fled, turning away, towel clutched to his chest.

“I’m going to get dressed,” he mumbled.

John followed him.

“Sherlock, please, I didn’t--”

“I know you didn’t.” 

Sherlock turned on his heel, yet he couldn’t look John in the eyes, not with him looking so remorseful and imploring while discomfort crawled in Sherlock’s treacherous skin. 

“Please,” Sherlock continued, forcing the towel on his chest down a fraction. “I’ll be right out, okay?”

He didn’t wait for John’s reply. His bedroom door shut behind him, handle clasped in shaky fingers. He rushed to the opposite wall and leaned his forehead against it, muffling a groan of infuriated despair into the towel. He was being so bloody ridiculous. Of course John hadn’t meant to do that. Of course not. And now he thought that Sherlock blamed him. Was probably afraid of him. But he’d had to get away. He couldn’t be there in the room with him until he calmed down and banished these thoughts, this old insecurity, this instinctual fear and need to escape whenever someone looked like him like that. Why did he have to react like that with John? He had no need to fear John. He knew that. His mind knew that. Why couldn’t he have control over his own mind? 

John touched him only in ways he liked. Spoke to him only in ways he liked (bar having a disagreement). Only looked at him in ways he liked. This was a fluke. An anomaly. It would never be repeated again if the guilt on John’s face was any indication. There was nothing, nothing, to fear here. Nothing at all. He couldn’t be safer than with John.

Sherlock shoved himself off the wall and ripped off the towel around his waist, throwing both on the bed. Quickly, he pulled on the first clothes that he could find, only realizing in the midst of putting on his jacket that he’d donned a suit as if he were going out. His customary armor. The urge to wrap himself up in his coat niggled at him, too. 

God, he really was a fucking idiot. He ripped off the clothes and put on pajamas instead. A dressing gown served just as well as a layer to hug around himself. Typical, household garb. Nothing suspicious about it at all. 

A soft tapping rapped on the door.

“Sherlock?” John called softly. 

Shit. How long had Sherlock been standing in front of the wardrobe staring at nothing? 

“Are you okay?” John asked, sounding more worried now.

Sherlock sighed.

“Stupid,” he berated himself under his breath. “So stupid.” 

He went to the door and opened it. John’s guilt had intensified. He looked haggard and wan. He opened his mouth, probably to apologize again, but Sherlock couldn’t listen to him beat himself up over something he couldn’t control.

“Please stop,” Sherlock said, placing his hands on John’s shoulders and neck. “I don’t need that. I understand you didn’t mean to. It’s how you’re built. How your mind works. I overreacted. I don’t know why I left the room like that. I know you would never demand anything of me.”

“Never.” John cradled his face, thumbs rubbing along Sherlock’s cheeks. “I would never do that to you.”

“I know that. You don’t need to say it.”

“I think I do. Even if you know it, I think part of you might need to hear it. You looked scared. The way you jumped back.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

“No, no.” John stroked his hair. “It’s okay. We both reacted on instinct. That’s what worries me.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“You think I acted out of some past trauma?”

Desperate concern showed on John’s face.

“Did you?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“No. Nothing happened. Nothing like that. People come on to me on occasion. Try to flirt. A couple of blokes at uni propositioned me. Made lewd remarks.” 

Sherlock’s skin crawled as he recalled their leering faces, the alcohol stinking their breath and loosening their tongues as they ogled him as if he were a toy for them to play with. They assumed that he must want it with the way he dressed, the way he acted. Victor kept them at bay once he entered the picture. They assumed that he was Sherlock’s boyfriend. Sherlock let them assume that to keep himself safe.

“So,” John said. “They harassed you? Nothing physical happened.”

“No. Only words and looks.”

John looked heartbroken as he looked away, jaw tight.

“Looks like the one I gave you.”

“No. Don’t feel guilty, please.” Sherlock leaned down to catch his gaze. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t help it. You’re not them. My brain is just being stupid.”

“It’s making an association based on past negative experiences. That’s not stupid. It’s perfectly valid. I’ll try to do better.”

Sherlock signed, swallowing a frustrated scream.

“You don’t need to. I know you… I know you must think of me…” Sherlock swallowed, struggling to get the words out. “That way, at times.”

John’s uncomfortable pause said it all.

“Does that bother you?” he asked. 

“John, I’m not about to police your thoughts. I can’t give you everything you want. Imagine away. As long as I don’t hear about it, I don’t care.”

“No, of course not. I’ll never bother you with it.”

Sherlock nodded. Why was he still so goddamn shaky? This was John. There was nothing to fear from John. 

“I uh… Thank you. I know you won’t. I just...”

Sherlock hugged himself. No, that looked bad. John mustn’t think that he was scared of him. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asked, uncertain.

Sherlock frowned at him, confused. 

“We are talking about it.”

“It just sounds like you might need to…” John rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing in discomfort. “I really don’t want to pry, but it seems like you have been bottling this up for a while and this kind of thing… I don’t know personally. I don’t want to presume, but…”

“You want me to go into detail?”

John raised a conciliatory hand.

“No. That’s not what I mean. I don’t want you to reveal anything that you’re not comfortable with. I’m just giving you the option that if you feel like you need to get something off your chest. It helps. Or don’t tell me anything and I’ll never mention it again. Forget I said anything.”

Forget. So simple when it came to facts and figures yet impossible over skin-cringing horrors like this.

“I understand,” Sherlock said. “But I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

“Okay. That’s fine.”

John touched Sherlock’s shoulders, gentle, so very gentle. Sherlock sank into his hands, then his body as he stepped forward and hugged him tightly. John returned the gesture readily, laying a soft kiss on his collarbone. Sherlock trembled at the gesture. So he hadn’t scared John off. If he had decided to touch Sherlock less for fear of giving the wrong impression, Sherlock didn’t know what he would have done. 

“I wish I had met you so much sooner,” he said into John’s hair, rubbing his nose in it, inhaling the scent of John’s shampoo. “You’re worth the weight of every idiot I went to uni with in gold.”

John chuckled lightly.

“Thank you for the compliment. I wish I’d met you sooner, too. I hope I can live up to your expectations of me.”

“You already have.”

John squeezed his back.

“Come on,” John said, leaning back, but leaving his hands exactly where they were. “Let’s not just stay standing here. What do you want to do? Read? Watch telly? Work on one of your experiments?”

A sudden idea crossed Sherlock’s mind.

“Would you read to me?”

John’s brows rose. 

“Sure. I don’t know how good I’ll be, though.”

“You’ll do fine. Your voice is all I need.” Sherlock hated how shy he suddenly felt. “It comforts me.”

A touched smile drove the remnants of John’s guilt out of his face.

“I’ll do my best, then. What do you want me to read?”

John protested that he would do a rubbish job at reading Hamlet, especially if he had to act out the parts, but Sherlock disagreed. Curled up on the sofa with his head in John’s lap, John struggling to infuse the proper, somber gravitas to the voice of Hamlet’s murdered father, Sherlock was perfectly content. That night, when John announced his intention to go to bed, Sherlock finally mustered the courage to ask.

“Do you want to sleep in my bed?”

John stared at him, surprised. Sherlock mentally shrank back. He’d miscalculated. John hadn’t brought up the matter himself because he didn’t want to.

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock said. 

“No, I want to,” John said.

Sherlock at him, analyzing his face for signs of dissembling, but found none.

“Oh.” A smile jerked on Sherlock’s lips. “Okay.”

John thrust his hands in his jean pockets.

“I thought about asking you,” he said, “but I wasn’t sure if you’d like that. I didn’t want to crowd you or take over your personal space.”

“You wouldn’t be crowding me. Although I do have to recognize that I’ve never done this before, so I might be wrong, but I have been missing your presence while I sleep for a while now. So I don’t think I am.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to crowd you, either. So.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together, feet bouncing. “Bed, then? Either form is fine.”

John returned his smile, excitement lighting up his eyes. 

“I think I should try it in this one,” he said. “I don’t want to accidentally crush you in the middle of the night as a seal if I roll over.”

“Hm. Good point. If you roll over me in this form, you could serve as a blanket.”

“Oh, really? That’s the real reason you want to sleep with you, is it? To use me as a heater?”

Sherlock smirked.

“You’re discovered my dastardly ploy.”

John laughed.


	28. Chapter 28

To Sherlock’s immense disappointment, they awoke on their respective sides of the beds. Well, the fourth time that Sherlock woke up. He normally woke up several times a night, his mind unable to shut up even in sleep, but this was the first time since childhood that his senses had been instantly attuned to the breath and sight of someone else lying next to him. And John was an infinitely better bedmate than Mycroft, who snored and complained that Sherlock’s feet were cold. John lied on his back, one arm under the covers and one splayed out on his side, hand almost hanging off the side. He looked much as he had yesterday on the sofa, and just like then, Sherlock curled up to watch. John’s breaths raised the blanket in gentle waves. There had been some tugging over it in the middle of the night when Sherlock pilled it all on top of himself and had been awoken by John yanking on it, protesting that he was cold. Maybe having two blankets would help. Although they could still deprive the other of their warmth by rolling over it in their sleep, as John had. A good width of the blanket was tucked under his body, leaving Sherlock with barely enough to cover his own. Perhaps John should sleep in seal form, which required no blanket. 

But then Sherlock wouldn’t be greeted to the sight of bed head and pillowcase wrinkles imprinted on John’s cheek and forehead, and that was too much sacrifice to bear. John’s hair lied tousled over his forehead in an adorable fringe. The left side of his face bore the crease of the pillowcase from when he’d been lying on it earlier, yet the line stretching along his cheek did nothing to diminish his beauty. On the contrary. How had Sherlock ever considered John to be less than physically extraordinary? Sherlock cheerfully made a study of his features, examining the soft fall of his eyelashes and how the darker blonde matched the color of the hair on his head. His handsome bone structure. The soft age lines that he’d probably hate to have pointed out, but which gave his face such character. The tiny bits of stubble growing on his jaw. 

How was Sherlock supposed to deprive himself of such charming beauty having just discovered it? He grinned into his pillow, fluttery hands tucked under his chin. Despite reassuring John, he had been a little nervous that having him here for the full night might be too onerous, but his presence had been a huge comfort. No longer was he a lonely body in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling, the sensation that the room felt much too empty sticking in his throat. He would be fine if John decided not to repeat the exercise, but not without some disappointment.

John’s eyes fluttered open, squinting at the brightness of the sunlight filtering through the curtains. 

“Watching me sleep again?” he murmured. 

The softness of his smile was a thing of beauty. 

“It’s not my fault you’re so beguiling,” Sherlock said. “I was wrong in my assessment of you when we first met. Well, not completely wrong. You’re handsome, but not of the sort that would be classified as a great beauty by traditional standards. And yet you are the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”

John’s eyes widened and he sat up, utterly startled, as if Sherlock’s words were anything less than the truth. 

“Really?” John said, voice light and amazed. “You’re not just flattering me?”

Sherlock stroked light fingers over his chest.

“Would I lie to you about this, doctor?”

John gaped at Sherlock’s fingers and grabbed them, a pretty, awed smile lighting his face.

“I guess not,” he said. “You’re always so direct about things. You really think I’m the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen?”

Was Sherlock’s declaration too over the top? John didn’t seem to mind, even if it was.

“You are. It may not be an objective opinion, but who cares about that? 

John looked down at the mattress, flushing at the impact that Sherlock’s words were having on him. John lied back down and reached for Sherlock, slipping his hand across his cheek down to his nape, a bright smile on his face that made him even more delightful to look at.

“I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, too. You already were one of them when I first met you, to be honest, but you’re definitely it now. I stare at the pictures of you on my mobile all the time.”

“Me, too.”

Sherlock smiled, a weird sickly sweet feeling of nerves and joy in his stomach as John looked at him like that, like he was the most precious being in the world. He didn’t know what to do with that, if it was too much or just enough or exactly what he needed, because he didn’t feel all that John was feeling at that moment. Admiration for his beauty, the unquenchable desire to touch him, and love. Yes, this was love. Did it matter when Sherlock’s feelings had shifted from intense admiration to love? Not really. It was a constant, needful love, as comfortable as a fuzzy blanket on a chilly night, yet it was not the butterfly flutter of romance he spied in John’s eyes. Yet this difference had never been a disconnect, had it? No. Clearly, John didn’t think so, either, else he wouldn’t be leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together. They closed their eyes, hands on each other’s napes, breathing in the same air. Yesterday’s jitters had been an aberration, a foolish reaction. This was the truth right here. 

“I want to move to London,” John said.

Sherlock leaned back, studying John’s face.

“Are you sure? Won’t you miss the ocean?”

“I can keep my house. Go there on weekends. But I can’t afford a place there and here, so…” John’s eyes turned sheepishly pleading. “I was wondering…”

“Yes, you absolutely can live here.”

John burst into a grin.

“Great. That’s a load off. I always hated living alone, but it’s even more unbearable now without you there.”

“It’s been the same for me. Mrs. Hudson has been doing everything she can think of to keep me from combusting. But I didn’t want to pressure you to move away from the sea. You’re sure you won’t miss seeing it every day?”

John stroked Sherlock’s hair, smiling with gentle reassurance. 

“I chose to live primarily on the land, remember? I can’t say that I won’t miss it, but I miss you more. And I didn’t live near the ocean for a long time when I was at uni. But I am going to need my weekends away.”

“Of course. Anything you need.”

“It’s not going to happen overnight. I need to give notice at the surgery. Get a job here.”

“Mycroft will help with that.”

John frowned.

“There’s no need to bother him with that. I can do it on my own.”

“But he can do it faster. And he wants to stay in my good graces, so he’ll do anything I say.”

John groaned.

“Sherlock, no. Mycroft is a busy man. If you tell him to do this, I’ll just tell him to ignore you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would. Also, since I am going to be living here now, there’s a little something we need to change.”

``````````````````

The mini fridge took up too much counter space. Honestly, having two fridges next to each other was ludicrous. The large one was mostly empty now. There had been plenty of room in that one, but nooo. 

“I’m not drinking milk that’s been sat next to decaying, human flesh,” John had said. “You’re sharing the flat now. Compromises must be made. It’s all part of being partners.”

Sherlock had scowled, but no amount of stroppiness had dissuaded John from dragging him to an appliance shop and selecting a mini fridge. It was delivered on Tuesday afternoon, hence why Sherlock was showing it to John now via video chat.

“It looks excessive,” Sherlock complained.

John rolled his eyes.

“It looks fine.”

“I can barely fit a head in this tiny thing.”

John choked on the rotini he was eating.

“A head?!” he gasped. “You’re not bringing a head into the flat.”

“Why not?”

John sputtered, looking as if the reason why was perfectly obvious. Why were people always so difficult about Sherlock doing rational things?

“Because it’s a bloody head. No. No heads.”

Sherlock pursed his lips.

“I will not promise that. If my research calls for a head, then I’m getting a head.”

“Can’t you just keep it at Barts?”

“Not always. You promised you wouldn’t ask for any changes that interfered with my research.”

John dropped his head with a grievous sigh as if Sherlock was asking to have a tiger as a pet. 

“Alright,” John said, looking back up, lips pressed tightly together in resignation. “Bring whatever you need into the flat. Just, try to keep any heads out of sight, please.”

“Okay. Just don’t look in my fridge. That’s easy enough.”

“Okay. I got another interview on Friday, by the way. This one for a surgery even closer to Baker Street.”

Mycroft had wisely ignored John’s exhortations to leave him to find his own employment. Sherlock hadn’t even needed to request him to do so. As soon as Sherlock told him that John was moving in, Mycroft had volunteered to look into acceptable positions so that John didn’t have to waste his time with the drudgery of it. John had resisted, even though there was absolutely no point. It must have to do with pride or something. But he had caved in the end when an email filled with available positions arrived in his inbox on Sunday afternoon. John had rolled his eyes but gave the go-ahead for Mycroft to forward his CV. It was either that, or do it himself without the impetus of a minister official backing him, while missing out on valuable cuddling time on the sofa, so it was a simple decision, really. By noon on Monday, he had five interviews lined up on Friday, which he was taking off to come in that morning. 

“They’ll probably hire you on the spot,” Sherlock said.

John snorted.

“That’s not how things work.”

“Please. What better doctor can they find?”

“I’m not the greatest doctor in the world, Sherlock. I do my bit as well as I can, but I’m pretty average when you get down to it.”

“Nonsense. You’re my doctor and I will accept no less than excellence, so you must be the best.”

A loving smile flashed across John’s face. Much better than his annoyance over Sherlock’s reasonable research materials. A notification beeped on Sherlock’s phone from his news app. 

“Give me a second,” Sherlock said, clicking on the notification.

Another dead body had been found, apparent suicide to anyone who didn’t have the mental capacity to look closely. No obvious signs of assault. Dead from poison, self-administered. A twenty-year-old this time. No link to the previous victim, yet exactly the same method of death. This had serial killer written all over it. Sherlock hopped on his toes, grinning from ear to ear. Bouncing, he started texting Greg.

“Sherlock?” John asked. “What’s this about?”

“They found another body. Exactly the same as the one they found on Sunday.”

 _Why haven’t you included me in the suicide case yet?_ Sherlock texted.

“You think it’s a serial killer?” John asked. “Has Greg asked you to come in?”

Sherlock returned to the video app.

“No, but he better. He has no hope of solving this on his own.”

John frowned that way he always did whenever Sherlock insulted someone’s intelligence. 

“Give him a little credit. He didn’t become a detective inspector by sleeping his way to the top, you know.”

“No. Mycroft wasn’t in the picture yet. I know Greg’s smart. There’s no need to defend his honor. But, like the rest of the Yard, he lacks the necessary nuanced outlook and careful focus to detect those crucial details that are needed to catch a truly cunning criminal. He needs me on this.”

As if Greg had heard him, his reply came in at the next second. 

_I don’t need you on this yet._

“What?! Yes, you bloody do.”

Sherlock texted him exactly that.

“Greg said no?” John asked.

“Why is he always so damn stubborn? He’d have fewer grey hairs on his head if he let me do things how I want, when I want. I always figure things out, but no. We have to do things by the book until his so-called detectives have bungled the investigation so badly that I have to waste precious time untangling their mess.”

“Sherlock.”

That was John’s quiet, “you need to calm down and breathe” tone. Sherlock huffed through his nose and stomped out into the sitting room, pacing in little circles, left hand shaking at his side.

“I need to be patient. I know. But you don’t know how hard that is.”

“I know I don’t, but I do understand that it’s difficult. By all means, let it out, but just take a breath, okay? If Greg keeps being stumped, he will call you in. He always does, doesn’t he?”

Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back. His hand slowed down but his fingers still wiggled. 

“Yes. But why can’t he do it now?”

“Just give him a minute, Sherlock. It will happen. First, you need to focus on dinner with Mycroft tonight. You can’t do both things, and this is important.”

The case was also important, but if Sherlock proposed delaying the dinner, John would get that “don’t you dare, Sherlock” look in his eyes, complete with disapproving glower, so Sherlock kept his mouth shut. 

Mycroft arrived on time, knocking on the front door as if he wasn’t able to waltz in whenever he pleased. Sherlock answered the door, eyes narrowed as he took in Mycroft’s impeccable appearance. He had changed suits after work, and carried a bottle of the wine that Sherlock had threatened him to bring. 

“You look acceptable, I suppose,” Sherlock said, stepping back to let him in.

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he did so.

“I’m glad I live up to your exacting standards,” he drawled, glancing at the open buttons below Sherlock’s throat. “Do you even own a tie?”

“I do. Several. They’re great for costumes. Do let yourself in next time. Why should I or Mrs. Hudson have to open the door for you when you have your own key?”

“I thought you didn’t like it when I let myself in.”

“I’m allowed to change my mind. Just do it.”

Mrs. Hudson emerged from the door behind him.

“Would you boys quit bickering and come inside already?” she said. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said, turning to her with a charming smile. “Thank you for the invitation.” He held out the bottle. “I thought this might be suitable for the occasion.”

Mrs. Hudson took the bottle with a knowing grin.

“Sherlock told you which kind to bring, didn’t he?”

The left side of Mycroft’s mouth jerked up ruefully. 

“That’s one way to put it.”

“It’s appreciated nonetheless. Let’s open it after dinner. And do feel free to use your key while you’re here. There’s really no sense in pretending that you don’t have it.”

“It’s not too much of an imposition?”

“Impose away,” Sherlock said, stepping around them into the flat. “It’s what you’re best at.”

Sherlock could feel Mycroft’s glare at his back and grinned. John had told him to tease away. He’d told Mycroft far worse than that. 

They sat in Mrs. Hudson’s little-used dining room. Even when she had overnight guests, they tended to eat breakfast at the kitchen table. But this was a proper dinner, so they would eat it at a proper table. Mycroft better appreciate the effort they were making on his behalf. 

“I have sticky toffee for afters,” Mrs. Hudson said once they’d served themselves. Mycroft wasn’t getting that much special treatment. “Greg mentioned that it’s your favorite.”

Mycroft smiled, pleasantly surprised.

“Did he? It is, thank you.”

“He’s talked about you a bit since the truth came out. Nothing too personal, don’t worry.”

“All good, I hope.”

He sounded like he really did hope. Mycroft didn’t make a habit of looking uncertain in front of people. So Sherlock wouldn’t need to stuff him with wine to get him to take his guard down. Good. That would have been irritating. 

“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson said, flashing her charming smile. “He’s very attached to you. He was so relieved when you reacted well to his true nature. Many don’t.”

“Of course. I would never hold that against him. It was a bit of a shock, I admit, but a pleasing one in the end.”

“And a cuddly one,” Sherlock said, smirking. “Greg is quite the cuddler, isn’t he? You must have a lot of fun with that.”

Mycroft shot him a “shut up” look, embarrassment creeping into his eyes.

“It’s alright, Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson said. “You don’t have to be coy around me. I’ve been around the block quite a few more times than you, I’d wager.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to feel awkward.

“Please don’t go into detail about that, either of you,” he said.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

“That’s hardly dinner table conversation,” Mycroft said, looking down at his plate while a blush threatened to redden his cheeks. 

“I have known a few werewolves, though,” Mrs. Hudson said. “If you’d like some advice in that area. Generally speaking. Nothing untoward.”

“And when I’m not around, please,” Sherlock, munching on his bread.

“You are the one who brought it up,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“I didn’t mean it like that. You’re the ones who twisted it. When I say cuddling, I mean just cuddling like I and John do. Which we can finally do whenever we want now that he’s moving here.”

“Is John satisfied with the employment selection I curated for him?” Mycroft asked, looking as eager to move on as Sherlock was. “It’s a bit difficult to tell over text when he’s genuinely pleased versus just being polite. He was so adamant in wanting to manage on his own earlier.”

“I don’t get it, either. Yes, he’s pleased. He’s hoping for the one nearest here.”

“Do let him get the job on his own without pulling any more strings,” Mrs. Hudson said. “He’s the sort to get upset if he doesn’t feel like he earned something on his own merit.”

“But no one gets anything exclusively on their own merit,” Sherlock said, frowning. “Or despite of it.”

“Still,” Mycroft said. “His culture does sound a bit more egalitarian than ours. It was quite the shock to him having to learn to manage with our methods.”

“Werewolves are also stricter about fairness,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’ve had to listen to quite a few rants about human nepotism and discrimination.”

A wry smile jerked on Mycroft’s face.

“I always knew that Greg was a very fair-minded individual. I assumed that it came from his upbringing, and it seems I was correct. Only, it goes beyond that. He never has approved of what he calls my high handed tactics.”

“Unless they benefit him,” Sherlock grumbled.

Mycroft raised a brow at him.

“You get away with it. I get a lecture.”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Greg is actually very proud of your job, even when he complains about not knowing half of what you’re up to.”

Mycroft’s eyes softened as he looked at Mrs. Hudson.

“Did he phrase it like that?” he asked, hope in his voice.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him.

“He did. As I said, he’s very attached to you.”

A fond, little smile glimmered on Mycroft’s lips. It was weird seeing that look on his face. He looked so happy, like when Sherlock had reminded him to bring the rosé before he left Mycroft’s house last week. Had Mycroft really not looked happy in so long, or did he reserve this expression for when Sherlock wasn’t around? Sherlock hoped it was the latter. Greg probably saw this face, although likely not as much these days. Sherlock should have paid more attention earlier. 

“Werewolves are very loyal, you know,” Mrs. Hudson continued. “As are selkies.” She smiled at Sherlock. “You boys have nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock chewed slowly on his steak. As excited as he was, John sharing the same space as him full time did pose certain risks. Sure, they had resided in John’s house for a couple of weeks, but what if that wasn’t enough time for John to be truly irritated by Sherlock’s deficiencies in human interaction? His research specimens might prove to be too much, even with the new miniscule fridge. And John was not a fan of a messy living space, but if Sherlock had to adopt his strictly neat habits, he would go mad. 

“I don’t doubt Greg, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said. “I only want to make sure that he’s happy and not forcing himself to please me.”

“He’s not doing anything of the sort. He just needs some time to clear his head of this Susan.” Mrs. Hudson hissed out the word like it was made of acid. “Greg knows what he wants.”

Mycroft’s smile widened. Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock, laying a hand on his right wrist.

“And you stop worrying, too. You’re wearing down my floorboards with all your pacing. If John wants to move in despite you keeping human body parts in the flat, nothing is going to drive him off.”

Sherlock frowned at his food as he shoved it from one corner of his plate to the other.

“There’s no guarantee of that,” he muttered.

“There’s no guarantee of anything, but that man loves you, so please stop fretting.”

“Listen to Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said. “I see absolutely no reason to worry about John’s faithfulness, and who is more paranoid than me?”

Sherlock snorted. 

“Such a person will never exist,” he said. “Fine. I’ll try to keep my pacing to a minimum.” He pointed at Mycroft. “As long as you stop being stupid.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“I’m never stupid.”

“Yes, you are. All the time. You just can’t see it past your huge ego.”

“Funny how you project your own deficiencies onto other people.”

Mrs. Hudson tutted. 

“You two are hopeless, aren’t you?” he said with a long-suffering sigh, yet there was a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

“Mycroft is the hopeless one,”’ Sherlock protested. “Not me.”

Mycroft started laughing.

“Stop that,” Sherlock said. “It’s true and you know it.”

“You’re making it very hard to side with you, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, peering at Sherlock with an exhausted look as she sat back and sipped on her wine glass.

“We have this same row every time we share a table,” Mycroft said, his irritating chuckles finally abating, although he retained that diverted smirk that Sherlock couldn’t stand. “I’m afraid that it really is hopeless, Mrs. Hudson. Some things are doomed to remain the same no matter what.”

“I have the same issue with my sister,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Cats and dogs we are. But at least you are sharing a table. That’s what counts.”

“Yes.” 

Mycroft’s smile softened into a fond and awed “I can’t believe Sherlock actually asked to breathe the same air as me” expression that made Sherlock squirm with awkward embarrassment. Would this ever stop feeling weird? God, he needed a cigarette. It was times like this that he wished that he enjoyed drinking. It would be so much easier. 

“Thank you again for the invitation,” Mycroft said, looking at Mrs. Hudson but glancing at Sherlock in the end. “It has been most enjoyable so far.”

“You just can’t stop thinking of the pudding, can you?” Sherlock said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes again, but his smile remained unchanged. Damn it. 

The quality of conversation didn’t get any better through the rest of the night, but at least Mrs. Hudson was enjoying herself. Apparently, Sherlock and Mycroft were very entertaining when they weren’t actually trying to hurt each other’s feelings. Mycroft cut out the weird smiling after a while and gave as much as he got, which was fun. Despite his petty comments, Sherlock did enjoy himself, which was odd. Enjoying Mycroft’s company was a thing of the past, like playing hide and seek and learning to read. Not that there hadn’t been times after that. And it wasn’t terrible. He may have missed this a little. He wouldn’t be making all this effort if he hadn’t. Still, it was a relief when Mycroft left and Sherlock was able to retreat upstairs to the comfort of his violin. God, he was drained. 

His mobile beeped. Scowling, Sherlock put down his violin and picked up his phone.

 _That wasn’t terrible_ , Mycroft had texted.

Sherlock snorted. He replied with a grumpy emoji and got back to his violin.


	29. Chapter 29

Greg was being a terrible friend. How many people had to die before he let go of his pride and gave Sherlock this case already? He didn’t know what the hell to do with a serial killer. He never did, nor did anyone in his incompetent team. And now he was spewing some nonsense in a press conference about having it all under control and the best people on the case.

 _No, you don’t_ , Sherlock texted him, typing furiously at the keys. _Stop saying that. Bring me in already._

Greg ignored him until late that Saturday afternoon, finally showing up in a police cruiser while Sherlock paced around the sitting room, hands steepled to his face. 

“See?” John said from his armchair, where he was reading a book. “I told you Greg would cave eventually.”

“But why couldn’t he cave sooner?” Sherlock grumbled, going on the alert when Mrs. Hudson opened up for him downstairs.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock called to him from the top of the stairs.

Greg sighed, looking frustrated and exhausted, as if that would inspire Sherlock to take pity on him. 

“He has been driving us round the bend waiting for this case,” Mrs. Hudson murmured to Greg.

“I heard that,” Sherlock said. 

“Alright,” Greg said, climbing up the stairs, head lowered in embarrassment, fully deserved. “I’m giving you the case. You win. Just come, please?”

“Don’t give me those puppy eyes. I’m not my brother. Where’s the fourth body?”

“Brixton. Hello, John.”

Greg nodded at John, who came up to stand beside Sherlock.

“Hey. I’m glad you finally came around. I had to flee upstairs because Sherlock wouldn’t let me sleep with all his hyperfocus.”

Greg groaned as if they were mercilessly attacking him without just cause.

“I apologize to the entire household, okay?” he said, sounding more tired by the minute. “You’re coming, yeah? You’ll like this one. She left a note.”

A note? Sherlock sucked in a breath, instantly on high alert. He steepled his hands, fingers clapping in glee. 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Come on, John.”

Sherlock ducked through the door to grab his coat.

“Hang on,” John said, frowning in confusion. “I’m going, too? To a crime scene? Am I allowed?”

“Of course you are. I cleared it with Greg ages ago.”

John looked at Greg, who shrugged. 

“I know Sherlock has been monologing to you about cases,” Greg said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Sherlock tells me all sorts of things, too,” Mrs. Hudson said, “when I’m filling in for his skull.”

John peered at Sherlock.

“Is that all I’m doing?” he asked.

For fuck’s sake. 

“I said you’re better than my skull. It doesn’t matter. We have a case to solve. Come on. Put your shoes on.”

John finally did as he was asked and they were off to the crime scene. He never enjoyed riding in a police cruiser, but John balked at paying for a cab when Greg could take them. Sherlock scowled at the partition between the front and back seats the entire way but kept his mind on task, mind buzzing with possibilities as he soaked up every detail of the files that Greg was finally letting him look at. And John was here with him this time. Finally! Talking through cases with him over the phone was nowhere near the same as having him at his side, examining a body right in front of their eyes, dazzling John with what was really basic observational skills, but John praised him and gazed at him like Sherlock was the most amazing being that he had ever seen. Coming from John, a living miracle, that meant more than Sherlock could ever express. 

The case proved as challenging and fun as he had hoped. John protested that they should inform Greg about finding the latest victim’s suitcase and texting the murderer, but Sherlock waved his complaints away. Greg would just muddle things up like he had until now with his need to do things by the book. Sherlock was sparing him from being an accomplice in Sherlock’s less than legal activities, which were necessary to close this case. He was really doing Greg a favor by keeping him in the dark. This was what Greg used him for, after all. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what he was getting into. 

Too much of a penchant for rules aside, working a case with John was exhilarating. Not only did they discover crucial evidence together, but they ran a daredevil chase across tiny side streets and rooftops. Sure, their suspect had been a bad guess, but God, had it been worth it to see that delighted grin on John’s face. Both out of breath, laughing as they shared a joke, adrenaline pumping in their veins as they fled from a cop that happened by. They walked the rest of their way to Baker Street, too wired to take a cab or the Tube. 

Then Greg had to squash their buzz by being an impatient busybody who couldn’t wait by the phone like he was supposed to. And of all the insulting excuses to snoop into Sherlock’s flat he chose a drug bust? Sherlock might have to rethink this friendship thing.

“It is his case,” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear.

“I don’t care,” Sherlock said loudly enough for everyone to hear. 

Greg narrowed his eyes at him and said something irrelevant. Everyone was saying irrelevant things. It was making him dizzy and his thoughts choke. He was so close to figuring out who the killer was. So damn close, but no one would let him think. Even Mrs. Hudson was whining about some cab that Sherlock hadn’t even called for.

Why would no one let him think?!

Oh. 

That was it. 

The cab. 

Sherlock turned, automatically reaching for his coat on the rack.

“I have to go out,” he said.

“What?” John and Greg said in unison.

“Go where?” Greg asked.

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s hand and giving it a quick squeeze before rushing down the stairs. John couldn’t follow him this time. Not into the lion’s den. He wouldn’t be safe. Sherlock needed to do this alone as he had always done. The cabbie waited for him outside the building, leaning back against his vehicle, hands in his trouser pockets, so casual and nondescript that Sherlock would have never paid him any attention had he passed him on the street. Just like he hadn’t when they chased his cab just a little while ago. The cabbie pointed this out himself, calling it a proper advantage for a serial killer. Sherlock couldn’t disagree. The man would give himself up without protest. Let the police take him away. But there was a catch, a punishment in case Sherlock was compelled to do his civic duty over satisfying his curiosity.

“I’ll never tell you what I said,” the man promised.

Sherlock sucked in a quiet, exhilarated breath. It would be so easy to get in the cab, follow this man, observe every detail of his murderous scheme, finally assuage those last nagging doubts, the final details filled in. The cabbie would hold true to his word. Sherlock could see in his eyes. Unless Sherlock did as he said, those last, crucial details would continue to fester in his mind, unanswered. What kind of result did he care about? He wanted answers. Needed answers. Needed them so very badly. It was excruciating to think that he would never know the full picture. The game, the danger, called to him. The thrill of the chase wasn’t over. Far from it. Why was he standing here prevaricating? He should be in the cab already.

But he couldn’t. This is what Mycroft was talking about. He had replaced one lethal fix with another, chasing scintillating thrill and danger, only in a different form, one that he also lied to himself that he could control. He was always the smartest person in the room. This cabbie’s intellect might be a match for his own, but not superior. There was only one of those, and he was halfway across London right now. Sherlock could win this. This wasn’t like last time. This was a match of wits, not violence, and it had only been an unhappy chance that had caused him to lose that time. 

Yet if John hadn’t happened to swim by at just the right time, he would be dead. Like Mycroft had said. John, who was watching him from the window, Greg probably at his side. He could feel their gazes on the back of his neck, apprehensive, concerned, wondering what he was doing talking to this cabbie when there was a killer on the loose. Always missing the obvious, even John. Oh, John, can’t you see it? Can’t you deduce the only possible explanation of all the facts? 

Feet came down the stairs. Sherlock hadn’t shut the door properly. Heavy tread, hurried. It was too distant and muffled for precise identification, but it sounded like Greg. Breath frozen in his throat, Sherlock took a step back, feeling like he’d just retreated from a precipice. 

“Detective!” he called out moments before Greg appeared at the door. “I have your man.”

Sherlock spared only a glance to the cabbie’s surprised expression before turning away, staying only long enough for Greg to cuff him and read him his rights. More of the sniffer dogs came down, including Sally, who regarded him with her usual resentful incredulity, but didn’t comment as she went to assist her boss with the arrest. Sherlock pushed past them and returned to his flat. His breath burned in his throat, shallow. His mind swam, tired and aching with frustrated theories which would never be answered now. They had the killer. All the evidence they needed to prove his guilt was at their fingertips, but he would never get all the answers he needed. John approached him as soon as he returned to the flat, concerned, always so concerned. Mrs. Hudson was little better, but she knew to leave him alone in these moments while he sorted himself out. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” John asked. “I should have seen it earlier. How else could the phone be here?”

Greg came up behind him, filling the doorway.

“Everyone out,” he called. “We’re done here.” 

Sherlock stood stock still as the remaining police officers departed, save for his right hand tapping furiously on his thigh. John noticed. He took Sherlock’s other hand in both of his and held it with a firm pressure. 

“Sherlock?” he asked once everyone except Greg and Mrs. Hudson had gone, voice soft. “What’s going on?”

“Yeah, what is going on?” Greg asked, stepping up beside them, eyes flinty with anger and disappointment. “Tell me that you weren’t going to get in that cab with him.”

Mrs. Hudson gasped and John gaped at him, beseeching Sherlock with distressed eyes to deny it. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t have. Come on. Not knowing he was the killer. We already have all the proof.”

“Of course Sherlock would have,” Greg said. “You wanted to get some alone time with him, didn’t you? Play some mind games?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson murmured, distraught, raising a hand to her face. 

“I didn’t go with him, alright?” Sherlock lashed out, voice sharp. “I called you down.”

“When I was already halfway down the stairs,” Greg said. 

“Plenty of time for me to jump in the cab. But I didn’t.”

“Oh, God,” John said, dropping Sherlock’s hand to rub his forehead. “You were going to go.”

“I wasn’t.” Sherlock turned to him, beseeching, begging. “I wasn’t going to go.”

John’s disappointed gaze ripped through him.

“Weren’t you? Why did you follow him down the stairs, then?”

Sherlock opened his mouth but forgot how to speak. John shook his head.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, turning away, jaw clenched, breath tight. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. How can you be so monumentally stupid?”

Sherlock lowered his head, barely daring to look at John, insides frozen with shame and dread at his displeasure. 

“Technically,” he said, voice tiny, “Mycroft is the smartest person you’ve ever met.”

“Don’t.” Sherlock nearly flinched at the anger directed at him when John met his eyes. “Don’t be clever right now. It’s too damn late for that.”

John brushed past them, grabbed his jacket and went out, steps quick on the stairs. Sherlock did flinch as John shut the front door.

“I didn’t get in the cab,” he said, not caring how helpless and small he sounded. John had never been angry at him before. Frustrated and annoyed, yes, but nothing like this. Greg sighed and swept a tired hand through his hair, his own anger draining out of him. Mrs. Hudson stepped forward, laying a hand on Sherlock’s arm, though he could derive little comfort from it. 

“He’ll come around,” she said soothingly. “It’s your first case together. He just needs to get used to this side of you.”

“You’re not angry at me, then?” 

She pet his arm. 

“I don’t bother about that with you, but I’m certainly not happy about it.”

“You’ve always come out alright,” Greg said. “But chances run out. John can’t be there to save you every time. You left him behind, too.”

“Of course I did. I wasn’t going to endanger him.”

Greg shot him a “no kidding” look. Oh. Right. That was the point, wasn’t it? Sherlock had gleefully included John in his investigation, but when real danger came along, he’d left him to run into it alone. 

“I need to leave to deal with this,” Greg said, voice softer, resigned. “We will talk more about this in the morning.”

The instant he left, Sherlock rushed to his armchair and sat down in a ball, legs pulled to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, chin on his knees. John hadn’t said if he was coming back. But he would, wouldn’t he? Where else would he sleep? Would he get a hotel? Was he that angry? 

“I’ll make you some tea,” Mrs. Hudson said, moving to the kitchen.

“Biscuits, too, please.”

“I’ll bring them right out.”

Sherlock didn’t often eat his feelings, but he had a keen need to right now. He pulled out his phone and dialed Mycroft’s number, his motions automatic, unthinking. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered on the second ring.

“I fucked up,” Sherlock said, voice pinched, breath short. “John’s furious at me. He walked out.”

“What do mean, he walked out?”

Mycroft’s voice tensed like a violin string.

“He grabbed his jacket and left. Didn’t say where.” Mrs. Hudson came with the biscuit bag and left it on the armrest. She squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder before returning to the kitchen. “I almost did something stupid and he didn’t like it.”

“What did you almost do?”

“Do you know how my case ended yet?”

“Greg told me they made an arrest a few minutes ago. A cab driver.”

“He asked me to get in the cab with him. He’d tell me what he told his victims if I did. Otherwise, he’d keep mum and I’d never get my answers.”

“God, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t get in the bloody cab. I didn’t. How can he be mad at me for something I didn’t do?”

“But you wanted to, didn’t you? You considered it. Of course you did.”

Sherlock buried his face in his knees, groaning deep in his throat.

“I didn’t call you so you would be disappointed at me, too.”

There was silence on the line for a second.

“Do you want me to come over?”

Sherlock chewed on his lip, rocking back and forth.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The call ended. Sherlock started dialing John’s number but stopped himself halfway. If John was willing to talk to him, he wouldn’t have left. Would calling him annoy him more? He locked his phone. Unlocked it. Locked it again. He ripped open the biscuit bag, stuffed a biscuit into his mouth, then dialed John’s number and pressed the call button. The phone rang. And rang. It went to voicemail, John’s cheerful voice asking him to leave a message. 

“I’m sorry, alright?” he said. “I didn’t get in the cab. Please come back. I’m sorry. I… I need you.”

He hung up, gasping, gripping the phone in both hands so tightly that it hurt. Three biscuits later, Mrs. Hudson came in with two steaming cups of tea and placed one on the table beside Sherlock. She sat across from him, sipping at her own. She looked disappointed, too. Everyone was always so disappointed in him. But she wasn’t leaving. She was here, sitting with him, making him tea, bringing him biscuits, giving him a place to live that didn’t cost an arm and a leg.

“How do you put up with me, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked, loosening his legs enough to grip the cup in his hands without spilling.

Sympathy warmed Mrs. Hudson’s face.

“Oh, Sherlock, I don’t put up with you. I love having you here with me. Now, I won’t lie and say it can’t be a bit—”

“Trying? Difficult? Insufferable?”

Mrs. Hudson sighed.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.” 

She spoke slowly, as if to a child. He probably looked like a child with his legs folded up like this. That was what everyone thought of him. That he was childish with his meltdowns and his whims. That he needed to grow up. Only a few knew that his brain didn’t work that way, but telling the world wouldn’t help anything. It would only make it worse, his actions even more suspect. 

“I knew you weren’t going to be a typical tenant when I asked you to move here,” Mrs. Hudson said. “You weren’t any different in Florida. I can’t say I like you snapping or having human body parts in the flat. I really wish you wouldn’t have those. The smell… But you’re not a burden, Sherlock. You’re a lovely, kind person. You’re just different. That’s not a bad thing. Don’t think for a moment that I don’t want you here.”

Sherlock’s throat closed up. He had to put the cup down before it spilled from his hand. Mrs. Hudson stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder. That simple, loving gesture drove Sherlock to his feet and into Mrs. Hudson’s arms. He shut his eyes, sniffing, his throat tightening even more as she pet his back, so loving and maternal.

“I don’t deserve you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, voice struggling past the tears he didn’t want to let fall.

“Don’t say that. Of course you do. You deserve all the happiness in the world, dear.”

Sherlock breath hitched on a sob. He couldn’t help it. But he couldn’t let the rest of the tears get out, not with Mycroft on the way. He wouldn’t have his brother find him a sobbing mess. John might also come back. Any moment now, he could walk in through the door. 

“You need to let it out, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“No. Mycroft’s coming.”

“He’s not going to judge you. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Sherlock laughed. The seizing in his throat, so similar to sobbing, triggered the tears and he let go.

Mycroft found them a few minutes later, still hugging. Sherlock straightened, wiping furiously at the tears on his cheek with his hands. Mycroft froze by the door, staring at him in shock. At any other time, his gaping eyes and mouth would have been hilarious, but not while Sherlock had snot coming out of his nose.

“What happened?” Mycroft asked. 

“Nothing new since I called you,” Sherlock said, pulling back from Mrs. Hudson and diving for the box of tissues in the kitchen. He brought it back to the sitting room and curled into the armchair, yanking out a couple of tissues before holding the box out to Mrs. Hudson, who was sniffy herself. She sat down on the chair opposite. Mycroft came over to them as they blew their noses, grabbing the bin from beside the desk and placing it beside them so they could dispose of the tissues. He continued to be helpful by going to the kitchen and bringing them glasses of water. Sherlock downed his in one gulp. His throat hurt, inflamed from the heaving tears. His head ached, too. He’d probably need to take a painkiller later. 

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Mycroft said, pulling up the desk chair to sit beside them.

Sherlock sucked in a sore breath. God, he didn’t want to go over this. Why had he asked Mycroft to come here? He’d want to scrutinize every single detail. What did he think seeing Sherlock a blubbering mess with his landlady/mother figure over a row with his first ever partner? Yet having Mycroft here, standing next to him, his voice soft despite its firm demand, his face showing the caring he so often sought to hide… His aghast shock at Sherlock’s pained state when he’d come in had stripped away that statuesque mask and showed the big brother Sherlock hadn’t dared admit that he’d missed until John forced them to spend time together. 

He dropped his head to his knees, a whine screeching in his throat.

“It was a good day,” he said into his legs. “A damn good day before I fucked it up at the end.” 

The details poured out of him in a gushing torrent of frustration and confusion. Crowing in glee when Greg finally caved and gave him the case. Examining the body at Lauriston Gardens with John. The thrill of sharing a case with him. Their easy comradery in this, like in all things. Chasing the cab across Soho. Laughing with him. The joy of adrenaline surging through his body. Yelling at Greg for breaking into his flat under the pretext of a drug bust, of all condescending things. Figuring out that the cabbie was guilty. Following him downstairs. Confronting him on the street. Considering going with him, just for a second. Well, no more than a minute. It couldn’t have been more than a minute. 

“I knew he was baiting me. Why is everyone acting like I’ve lost my capacity for reason? I wasn’t some hapless hare willfully hopping off into slaughter. I can see it in your faces that you think I was being stupid. You don’t understand. I need to know. I can’t just go through life with half- answered questions. I need clearcut, complete knowledge. And I’ll never get it now. The man won’t talk. He meant it. He won’t give me any more information. But I’m safe. That’s the important thing, right? The thing in Dover was a blip. Bad luck. You know my record.”

“Bad luck doesn’t just come around once,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock groaned into his hands.

“I know. Alright? I know. No one tonight has told me anything I didn’t already know. I didn’t go. Okay? Can’t I at least get some credit for that?”

No. Of course not. Not from their long-suffering, “how do I tell him that he’s wrong without hurting his fragile ego”? expressions. He was wrong. He was always wrong. Yes, it had been stupid and reckless, and they cared about him so much, and wasn’t he such a selfish wanker for not considering their feelings when he ran off into danger like that? He dropped his head on his knees. God. His bony knees hurt his forehead, but he deserved it. He raised his head just enough to look at his phone. No messages. He would have heard a call, anyway. How long had it been? Twenty minutes? 

Mycroft touched his shoulder. Sherlock jumped, staring at him in shock. Mycroft jumped, too, removing his hand and studying Sherlock’s face, frowning in a silent question. Did Sherlock look such a miserable mess for Mycroft to be reaching out like this and giving him the comfort of touch even while disagreeing with him? Stupid question. Of course he did. Sherlock nodded. More like a swift shake of his head. Mycroft put his hand back down. Hs fingers squeezed with the right amount of pressure that Sherlock liked. Firm, yet not so much to hurt. Rare gesture though it might be, he always knew how to do it right. 

“We do appreciate that you didn’t get in the cab,” Mrs. Hudson said, leaning forward, so understanding. Always so understanding. Sherlock needed to get her a grand present for her birthday. Make up at least a little for the annoyance he put her through. Maybe she’d like a composition of her own. “It was very responsible of you.”

“We’re not discounting the choice you made,” Mycroft said. “Not at all. We know it was difficult for you.”

Sherlock rubbed his chin on his knees.

“You’re just worried about me,” Sherlock said, sarcastic. 

He signed. Why was this so hard? Why did he always have to be _him_? A fuck up. That’s what he was. Never mind his intellect or his knowledge or his bloody research into 243 types of tobacco powder. He would always fuck up. Always disappoint people. Always.

“Of course we’re worried,” Mrs. Hudson said. “We love you. We couldn’t not worry about even if you had some boring office job and never put yourself in harm’s way.”

Sherlock’s phone chimed with a text message. He jumped, reaching for his phone so fast that he almost dropped it on the floor. 

_I’m on my way back_ , John texted. 

Sherlock sank forward, a relieved breath bursting out of him. 

“John is coming back,” he gasped, clutching the phone to his chest. “He’s coming back.”

“I knew he would,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling.

“John wouldn’t abandon you so easily,” Mycroft said. “When he gets here, you will simply explain. He will forgive you.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Sherlock said, rocking back and forth again. 

“He’s willing to move in with someone who keeps dead body parts next to the food. He’s not going to be chased away so easily. Your partner is made of hardier stuff than that.”

Sherlock sucked in a scared breath. Maybe Mycroft was right. John had put up with him for this long. But what if this was the final straw? What if it was too much?

Eighteen agonizing minutes later, the front door finally opened. Sherlock jumped off the armchair and ran to the stairs, hands shaking as he gripped the handrail. John looked up at him, tired, mouth in a tense line, shoulders hunched.

“John,” Sherlock called, startling himself with the urgency in his own voice. “You’re back.”

“I said I was coming back,” John said, frowning. “Didn’t you get my message?”

Sherlock swallowed.

“I did. But you didn’t say how long you would take and I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

Paranoid. Stupid. So stupid. 

“I’m sorry,” John said. He started coming up the stairs. “I should have been more specific.”

Why was John apologizing? He didn’t need to apologize. Sherlock did. This was all him. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Can we please talk?”

“Yes, of course. That’s why I’m here.” 

John reached the landing and looked past Sherlock into the flat.

“Mycroft,” he said, suddenly out of step. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Sherlock told me what happened,” Mycroft said, peering carefully at John without giving the appearance of doing so. “I’m glad you’ve returned. We’ll leave you two to talk.”

He and Mrs. Hudson slipped out, closing the flat door behind them.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said the instant that he heard them start going down the stairs. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know you would get so angry. I was just trying to keep you safe.”

John raised a hand, his lips still in that terse line, and Sherlock flinched, breath freezing in his throat, but John’s next words were gentle.

“I know,” he said. “I could tell in your voicemail. I suppose I should have known that something like this might happen. You love taking risks. Mycroft told me. Greg told me. What we did today more than fits the bill. But you considering getting into a murderer’s car knowing that he’s a killer... That’s too much, Sherlock. That’s too fucking much.”

Sherlock nodded jerkily. John was angry. Very angry. His voice wasn’t so gentle by the end. Not at all.

“I know. But I only thought about it. I didn’t actually go through with it. “

“The fact that you thought of it at all is a problem.”

John’s disappointed voice made Sherlock flinch. John sighed, dropping his head into his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you scared me. You really did. And you left me behind. How am I supposed to back you up if you leave me? I was there with you every step of the way today, even against my better judgment sometimes. I could have been with you for this, too.”

“You wouldn’t have let me get in the car.”

“No. Of course not. But that’s my point. If you want me to work cases with you, you need to let me be with you. Not just allow me to follow you around when it pleases you. And let me tell you when something you’re doing is not worth the risk, which this was most certainly not. Can you please let me do that? Please, Sherlock?”

Sherlock gaped at him, breath held in his throat. He scrutinized John’s face. The weary line of his mouth. The worried shoulders. The pleading gleaming in his eyes. 

“You’re not leaving me,” Sherlock said.

John frowned, confused. Sherlock huffed out a relieved laugh even as John’s eyes widened in horrified surprise.

“You thought…” he stammered. “No. I’m not going anywhere. Oh, Sherlock.”

John rushed forward and took Sherlock’s hands in his, squeezing gently, looking intensely into Sherlock’s eyes.

“I didn’t mean to make you think that,” John said, so apologetic that Sherlock trembled as fear drained out of his body. “Of course I’m not leaving. I’m upset, but I’m not going to abandon you so easily. I told you. I’m not doing that again. I love you, Sherlock. How could I just leave you like that?”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile. He had known that John loved him, but hearing it confirmed lightened the load in his chest so much that he could fly. John sighed.

“Come here,” he said and reached up to cradle Sherlock’s head, his fingers so gentle on his jack and neck. Sherlock leaned down eagerly, a desperate laugh bubbling in his throat, grasping John’s head as well. Their foreheads met, noses rubbing together, Sherlock’s uneven breath mingling with John’s steadier one. 

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John murmured. “But you need to let me in. No more leaving me behind, okay?”

“Okay. I promise. You’ll always be by my side. Always. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“I don’t see me not wanting to be with you anytime soon, if ever, so there’s no need for you to worry.”

Sherlock breathed. It was easier now. 

“You’re not angry anymore?” he asked.

John chuckled and leaned back.

“Oh, you’re not out of the dog house yet. Not by a long shot. But I’m not angry. Still.” John’s face grew stern. “You have some making up to do.”

`````````````````

Sherlock swore never to bring a disembodied, human head into 221B Baker Street.


	30. Chapter 30

Without any prompting, Mycroft followed Mrs. Hudson into her flat. 

“I know what I said,” Mrs. Hudson said, going straight for the kettle on the counter. “But I really don’t know what to do with that boy sometimes. I really don’t.”

Mycroft signed, standing to the side. 

“Sherlock has always been willful beyond a fault. He’s not likely to change, not even for John. Although his presence does seem to be having some effect, at least.”

Mrs. Hudson glanced at him over her shoulder as she poured water into the kettle. It was a tad late for caffeine, but Mycroft wasn’t inclined to care. 

“You think he would have gotten into that cab if John weren’t around,” she said.

“I do.”

“Me, too. Lord knows he loves getting himself into scrapes. He’s lucky he wasn’t around after he almost got himself killed in Dover. John has been a godsend in more ways than one.”

Mycroft’s throat clenched. 

“That he has. Shall I get the teacups?”

“Please do.”

She leaned against the counter, waiting for the water to boil as Mycroft opened the cabinet the cups were in. As the guest, he wasn’t obligated to fetch them. His question had been experimental. Sherlock filched whatever he pleased from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, perfectly at home. Mycroft wouldn’t presume to do the same without asking, but this little gesture still placed him a bit beyond an acquaintance of necessity, which was how he had felt until now. The dinner had divested Mycroft of his doubts that Mrs. Hudson merely tolerated him for being Sherlock’s brother. Her support regarding Greg had been most welcome, and the environment had been comfortable and familiar, save for who sat at the head of the table. There had been no need to dissemble his personal life or fend off an attempt at matchmaking. Sherlock had been relaxed, even if he adopted a combative version of it. Yet he hadn’t been sullen or counting the seconds until he could leave and not have to come back for months. It had been a welcome respite from Mycroft’s usual disappointment with anything familial. Even now, despite Sherlock’s tiresome recklessness, there was a comfort in being able to be open up about his little brother with someone who cared for him but didn’t disapprove of his choice of profession. 

“John will forgive him,” Mycroft said.

“Of course he will. He’s head over heels. But Sherlock is going to have to do some serious groveling, I’m sure.”

The kettle shrieked. Mrs. Hudson took it off the stove. 

“I wonder what he’ll ask for as recompense,” Mycroft mused. “No more body parts in the kitchen?”

Mrs. Hudson poured out the tea.

“That’s too tall of an ask. Though he might get him to pick up the flat a bit. Someone needs to.”

Mycroft put milk and sugar into his cup and stirred.

“How he finds anything is beyond me.”

They sat down on the table, cups in front of them on saucers. Mrs. Hudson took a sip from her cup.

“And yet he complains if you move something.” 

“Even when he moved it himself and simply forgot.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. 

“And what is it with sticking his top priority papers on a knife? How is that helpful?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there. He has been doing that since he was fifteen. Mother threw a fit over the state of his desk but he refused to stop. There’s no winning with him if he doesn’t want to do something.”

The floorboards above them creaked as Sherlock and John walked across the sitting room, stopping a couple of paces away. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. 

“They sat down on their armchairs,” he said. “The storm must have blown over.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head at him, smiling in amusement.

“Of course you have the layout of their flat memorized.”

Mycroft shrugged.

“I remember things. It’s a curse as well as a blessing. I don’t forget as easily as Sherlock does.”

“Oh, I don’t think that Sherlock forgets that easily, either. He just pretends to.”

“You can always count on my brother to be stubborn.”

“There’s no helping that. We’re just going to have to keep picking him up when he trips all over himself.”

Mycroft’s never-ending travail.

“Yes. Always.”


	31. Chapter 31

John got the position closest to Baker Street. He moved in a week later, bringing clothes, books, and far too many records to fit on the shelf that Sherlock had cleared for him. They were tripping over stacks of boxes while they figured out what they could move to make room. Several of Sherlock’s books were probably never going to be read again, so those could go. It was harder with his costumes, but now that John was living here, he really needed full use of his wardrobe, so Sherlock was forced to say goodbye to some pieces he hadn’t used in years. The space negotiations carried on for a couple of weeks, during which Sherlock was uncharacteristically glad not to have a case. He had no desire to see his promise to keep John at his side no matter the danger tested so soon. Not that he intended to break it, but in the interest of John’s safety, he might be compelled to do so. John might not be so forgiving a second time around. 

John seemed to be adjusting well to life in London. He liked his new colleagues and being able to snuggle whenever he wanted. They both did. Except for the inconvenience of John disappearing to his new surgery every weekday, things carried on the way they had been doing so far. On the weekends, they drove down to Dover and enjoyed the beach and the hilly hikes. Mycroft bought them the bench that Sherlock wanted, a swing one, refusing to accept any sort of payment for it.

“As I recall,” he told John, “I owe you. So don’t even think about paying me back.” 

John tried to protest but got nowhere. The bench was installed by the next weekend, given them ample opportunity to lounge on it, gazing at the ocean, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. It was a much more cheerful experience than the last, but a somber tinge settled in John’s eyes when he thought that Sherlock wasn’t looking. He was restless in the evenings, sneaking off to the Thames when he could, avoiding entertainment that had to do with birth families. Once, his good mood evaporated during an advert featuring a birthday party with happy parents gifting their smiling child a puppy. He was morose and mentally distant for the rest of the day. Sherlock had snuggled him, made him tea, even made dinner. John smiled and thanked him, but it didn’t help cheer him up in the slightest. 

In desperation, Sherlock suggested something that he’d never thought himself capable of enduring. 

“Let’s go to a pub quiz.”

John gaped at him.

“Pub quiz? But you hate trivia. You called it asinine.”

Sherlock kicked his past self. But it was asinine. Still. Sacrifices must be endured. 

“I know what I said, but you like pub quizzes and I thought maybe we could do something different for a change.”

A fond smile grew on John’s face.

“You’re trying to cheer me up,” he said. 

“Of course I am. You’ve been mopey all day. I hate it. Mrs. Hudson is free tonight. She can come with us. And Greg, too, if he can.”

Actually, John could just go with the two of them. There was no need for Sherlock to subject himself to useless facts at all.

“I would love that,” John said, smiling brightly. “I’ve wanted to do something like this with you for ages, but I doubted that you would ever want to.”

Drat. Too late.

All four of them went. John even invited Mycroft, who excused himself with a work thing that may have been completely fabricated. The trivia was as boring as expected, although at least they had the courtesy of including a chemistry question, even if it was silly. How many elements began with the letter H? Really? That was the best that they could come up with? But it put a smile on John’s face, which stayed for the whole night, so the annoyance was well worth it.

But it didn’t last. Soon, John was sad again and Sherlock didn’t know what to do about it. One evening, while they were strolling beside the Thames by Tower Bridge, John stopped by the railing and leaned on it to gaze across the water. His face had that same pensive expression of sorrow that had been driving Sherlock mad for days. He stood next to John, biting his bottom lip. This ended now.

“John. Something is bothering you. Please tell me what it is.”

John looked down at the pavement, his fingers curling into his palms. He sighed.

“It’s my birthday in a few days,” he said.

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Why didn’t you tell me? And why are you acting like it’s the end of the world?”

“I should have told you earlier.” John glanced at Sherlock in apology before looking back down. “I’m sorry for worrying you. I didn’t want to make a fuss. My birthdays haven’t been the same since I left.” His voice grew strangled for a second. “Since I left home. My family always made a big thing over someone’s birthday. If we were near a human settlement, we would go into town, find something fun to do. A park or a festival of some sort. They always made sure to be near Ireland for my birthday. The music festival in Galway I told you about? It was in on my birthday. It’s on now. Harry got to go to New Orleans for hers. I loved it. I knew I’d be giving that up, yet I still…”

He gripped the railing, breath shaky. Sherlock slipped an arm around his back, holding him close, right hand on John’s. His birthdays must have been lonely ever since, a cruel difference to his former experience.

“You’re not alone on this birthday,” Sherlock said. “We can go out to eat. Or go out of town for a bit. Get in the car and go all the way to Scotland if you want. Or France.”

John’s chuckle was too desperate for Sherlock’s comfort. 

“That sounds nice. Maybe. I have missed spending the day with someone I care about. But it’s not… I’m probably still going to be sad. Just a bit. I love being here with you. I really do. I’m sorry if I’ve given the impression that I don’t with the way my mood’s been.”

“I didn’t consider that for a second.” Sherlock kissed his cheek. “Be as mopey and melancholy as you like. God knows you put up with that from me. But I would rather you weren’t utterly miserable on your birthday.”

John smiled, wider this time.

“I don’t, either. And I know I won’t be. But it’s not only about that. I never am going to stop missing them. My family.” 

John looked over the Thames, peering into the distance downstream as if hoping that familiar seal heads would suddenly emerge and greet him. Sherlock tugged him closer, tucking his head under his chin, hating that this was all that he could do. 

Wait. This wasn’t all that he could do. There was no fixing John’s relationship with his family, not unless they themselves decided to stop being such selfish pricks, but they weren’t the only family that John could ever have. 

Sherlock had some phone calls to make.


	32. Chapter 32

Mycroft got Greg’s request to come over while he was on the treadmill. He cooled down quickly and rushed into the shower. Greg had said that he was only fifteen minutes away, so there was no time for dillydallying. His divorce had come through a week earlier, resulting in a long, somber phone call at midnight, for Mycroft had been out of the country and refused to let Greg hang up simply because it was “too late” and he technically should have been in bed. Going to sleep in the small hours of the morning wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, so Greg was hardly intruding, and Mycroft would much rather comfort Greg than pore over intelligence reports. Even if it meant talking Greg through the morass of emotions that ensued from the termination of his marriage. Greg spared him some of the detail, he was sure, especially when it pertained to himself. Greg didn’t wish to cause him discomfort, no matter how much Mycroft insisted that he not hold back to spare his feelings. He was here as a supportive friend, even if the subject matter was unpleasant.

However, Greg himself felt that awkwardness, so he spent the bulk of his socializing time with his other friends and family, including John and Sherlock. They had even gone to a pub quiz, along with Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft wasn’t sure whether he was glad or disappointed to have to miss it due to being buried in work. Really quite a handy excuse, even when it was true. He was very glad that this was not the case today. Greg and he had spoken regularly, but they hadn’t seen each other since he had come over after Sherlock’s own unusual visit. The fact that Greg was visiting now, with such little preamble, signified something, yet Mycroft hesitated to speculate on what. One week after finalizing a divorce was much too soon to jump into another sexual relationship unless it was a rebound, which this better not be. Perhaps Greg had been brought low by this emotional time and desired in-person comfort from Mycroft. 

Or he wished to backtrack on certain previous statements of intent regarding the future of their relationship. 

Mycroft strove to shake the notion out of his mind, but it was no use. He wasn’t even able to seek the dignity of being fully dressed should this unfortunate event ensue. But Greg wouldn’t disappoint his hope with such little warning, surely? Unless he had come to the sudden realization and wished to disabuse Mycroft of any hope as swiftly as possible. 

Mycroft’s phone announced that Greg had driven through the front gate. Quickly donning a pair of slacks and a pale blue dress shirt, Mycroft hurried downstairs and met Greg at the door. Greg entered with a warm smile, even if it was tarnished by weariness and preoccupation.

“Hi,” he said, patting Mycroft’s arm. “Sorry again for the short notice. I was close by and… Well, I wanted to see you. Sorry for interrupting your exercise routine.”

Mycroft frowned.

“I just showered. Are you able to smell my sweat despite that?”

Why on Earth was he mentioning his own sweat at a time like this?

“Well, you didn’t just stop sweating,” Greg said, grinning, not seeming to notice the awkwardness of Mycroft’s comment at all. “And you sounded a little out of breath on the phone. I am a detective, you know. Seriously, how do you and Sherlock think I got this job? I’m observant, too.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” 

Why the devil was Mycroft seized by the urge to shuffle his feet? 

“You’re fine,” Greg said, starting to walk toward the sitting room. “I’m not offended or anything. And it’s too late to feel weird about me being able to smell you. That has been the case since day one.”

“I’m aware, and I’m over any embarrassment that may have ensued over this realization. You seem better than when we spoke last.”

“Yeah. A bit. I’m going on holiday in a couple of weeks. Just to the south of Spain to clear my head. And have the locals laugh at my extremely rusty Spanish.”

“If you wish to refresh your memory, I’m happy to oblige.”

Greg winced.

“You might laugh at me, too. It’s really bad.”

“I would never. I would take the task very seriously.”

Greg smiled fondly. 

“I know you would. Maybe I’ll take you up on it.”

They reached the sitting room and Greg flopped down on the sofa. Mycroft sat on an armchair to the side within easy view of him. Greg rubbed his hands on his trousers, a sigh of nervousness that made Mycroft brace himself. 

“Have you been planning this trip for a while or was it a sudden decision?” Mycroft asked, hoping it didn’t sound too much like an interrogation.

“Sudden. I realized I need to get out for a bit. Take a break and do something with no relation to Susan or work or Sherlock assuring me that he’s not going to do something stupid at the next case.” Greg snorted. “Which he will, let’s be honest.”

Mycroft sighed in barely contained despair. He scraped at the cloth of the armrest with his nails.

“That he will. Sherlock is incapable of restraining himself. Hopefully, John will give him some perspective.”

“God, I hope so. I think he’s afraid I’m not going to give him another case, which of course I will, because I’ll have to. And I like working with him because I’m a masochist. And you want me to.”

Mycroft’s fingers stilled.

“Please don’t feel compelled on my account.”

A wry smile jerked on Greg’s face. 

“There are a few things I’d like to do on your account, actually. And my own.”

Mycroft pressed his hand flat against the armrest. 

“Are there? Like what?”

Greg opened his mouth. He scrapped his bottom lip with his teeth, sucking it into his mouth as he glanced away, considering.

“Do you want to join me on the sofa?” he asked.

Mycroft ceased breathing for a moment. He stood up and crossed the couple of steps necessary to reach Greg, sitting down next to him. He left a couple of inches between them, a modest distance which Greg narrowed immediately by reaching for Mycroft’s hand on his lap.

“May I?” he asked. 

Mycroft nodded, the motion not as jerky as he’d feared. He turned his hand up. Greg’s own slid easily into his, the familiarity of his skin a welcome balm. He wasn’t sure who began entwining their fingers, but it didn’t matter. His eyes shone with a silent question as he bit his lip.

“This isn’t too soon for you?” Mycroft asked, apprehensive, but he had to ask. 

A deep exhale expelled out of Greg’s lungs. He looked away for a second, gathering strength, yet his hand tightened around Mycroft’s.

“You know what, I’m tired of waiting around. The divorce is done. Susan is out of my life. I do need to take things slow. I’m not ready to jump into bed yet full stop, but since we kissed I haven’t wavered about wanting more of that. Not for a moment. If you’ll have me.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft breathed the word without even thinking, leaning forward, stopping to gauge Greg’s willingness. Greg closed the gap, grasping Mycroft’s nape with his free hand, pulling him forward into a kiss that sparked every cell in Mycroft’s body. 

“I’m sure,” Greg said into his mouth as he pulled back a couple of inches. “So please don’t ask if I am, because I’ve thought about this so many times that I’m tired of my own thoughts. And you clearly want this, too, so…” Greg flashed a hopeful grin. “Are we good?”

Mycroft grinned back.

“We’re good.”


	33. Chapter 33

The next afternoon, John returned home to find Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson sitting on the armchairs, while Mycroft and Greg sat together on the sofa, pressed snugly together. John paused by the door, smiling at the assembled group in surprise.

“Hello,” he said. “I didn’t know everyone would be here. Is there something going on that I don’t know about?”

“There is,” Sherlock said, standing up and going to him to press his cheek to his with a small kiss, their quick version of a nuzzle. “I asked everyone to come here because I wish, we wish, to make you a proposition. I know no one will ever be able to replace your birth family or your old clan, but would you consider joining a new one? A human one? Well, human and werewolf?”

John’s eyes widened. He gaped around the room, eyes wide in shocked bewilderment. 

“What?” he gasped. “You want to… Really?”

“Would that be acceptable to you?” Sherlock asked. “You don’t have to say yes.”

_Please say yes please say yes._

“How could I not?” A grin burst on John’s face and he stepped on his tiptoes to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. “Oh my god. I’m… I’m honored. I…” 

His eyes shone as he looked around the room. Everyone smiled back. Mrs. Hudson was beaming, her hands clasped joyfully in front of her. 

“I don’t know what to say,” John stammered. “I’m so overwhelmed right now. I never thought… Thank you.”

“No need to thank us,” Greg said. “Just tell us how it’s done. I’m afraid I don’t know that bit.”

“Um… Well, um… The head of the clan offers the prospective person a place in their clan in front of witnesses. The person, I, accept and adopt that clan’s name.”

Ah. A name. 

“A unified name might be tricky,” Mycroft said. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Sherlock said. “How about picking one? John?”

John frowned, considering, so flustered that Sherlock wanted to bundle him off to a chair.

“Uh, yeah,” John said. “We can do that.” John grinned at Sherlock. “It has to be your name, of course.”

Happiness welled up in Sherlock’s chest as he smiled back.

“Of course.” He turned toward the rest of the room. “As the elder one, Mycroft should be the one to offer it. Although Mrs. Hudson is obviously the head of the clan.”

“Am I?” she asked, smiling with forced innocence that made Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Does that mean that certain tenants will listen when I tell them not to play the violin at three in the morning?”

Sherlock narrowed her eyes at her. 

“Never mind that,” he said. “Can Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft do it together?” he asked John. 

John nodded.

“Sure, why not?”

He seemed on the verge of either raising his fists in the air and jumping up and down or collapsing in a startled heap on the floor. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft got up and stood together in the middle of the sitting room. 

“John,” they both said, practically in unison, but a tad out of sync.

“Apologies,” Mycroft said, extending a hand towards her, tilting his head. “You should go first.”

“Right,” Mrs. Hudson said, turning back to John, who was watching her so intently that Sherlock could almost feel him vibrating. “John, I offer you a place in our clan. Do you accept?”

“I accept,” John said, his grin even brighter now.

“And do you agree to take the Holmes name as your own?” Mycroft asked, in a much more serious tone than Mrs. Hudson.

John nodded, gasping out a laugh.

“Yes, I do accept.”

He stepped forward and bowed a few inches down before straightening again. Mycroft raised an amused brow but didn’t comment on the bow.

“Does that complete the formalities?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

John nodded again.

“Yeah. Just one more thing.”

He walked up to Mrs. Hudson and pressed his cheek to hers, then moved onto Mycroft.

“Do you mind?” John asked.

“Not at all,” Mycroft said, leaning down.

That done, John pulled Mycroft into a hug, barely giving him time to reciprocate before moving on to Mrs. Hudson, then Greg, who got up from the sofa to receive it, a wide smile on his face.

“Congratulations, mate,” he said. 

Finally, John returned to Sherlock, who hugged him tightly, nuzzling his face, never mind that everyone else was standing right there. 

“I’m so happy right now,” John whispered, gripping his fiercely. “Thank you. All of you.”

“You will always have us, John Holmes,” Sherlock said.

“And you’ll always have me,” John said, holding Sherlock’s hand.


End file.
